


Psalm 73

by ceterisparibus



Series: Prompts! [10]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Awesome Karen Page, Brett Mahoney is a good bro, Catholicism, Friendship, Gen, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, I swear the fic isn't as dark as the tags make it look, I think Matt should wear jeans more often, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Matt disagrees, Religion, Sex Trafficking, Teamwork, Whump, child sex trafficking, legal fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26187265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterisparibus/pseuds/ceterisparibus
Summary: It was a mistake not to account for Vanessa when Matt made his deal with Fisk. Now Nelson, Murdock, and Page have to work together to stop her as she steps smoothly into her husband's shoes.Prompt: Vanessa Fisk takes her husband's role and is confronted by Nelson Murdock and Page.
Series: Prompts! [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1334596
Comments: 152
Kudos: 83
Collections: Daredevil and Defenders Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pikkulef](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pikkulef/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: discussion of sex trafficking.

_But as for me, my feet had almost slipped;_

_I had nearly lost my foothold._

_For I envied the arrogant_

_when I saw the prosperity of the wicked._

~

Vanessa

Wilson was gone. His assets were seized (and this time, nothing had escaped the FBI—thanks, Vanessa understood, to the work of a certain blonde reporter). Vanessa herself was under constant surveillance. Twice over.

There was the FBI, of course, monitoring her every move. But there was no warrant out for her arrest; no warrant even to search her apartment (shabby compared to what Wilson provided, but with an open floorplan and elegant décor that made the space feel larger and more elegant than it was). The FBI suspected her, clearly, but they had no evidence. Yet.

The surveillance that more immediately concerned her—and impeded her—was that of the lawyer. Matt Murdock. Blind, but no less effective at uninvited reconnaissance for all that. Not a phone conversation with Wilson went by without warnings ringing in her ear not to underestimate the man.

Daredevil. Murdock. Wilson believed the man could destroy her life in either persona.

Perhaps he was right. But though Vanessa loved Wilson, dearly, she also understood that he still did not truly understand her. He still saw her as something… _other_. Either a masterpiece to be protected or a goddess to be worshiped; not an equal. Inviting her to decide what to do about Special Agent Nadeem had made her optimistic about their future, but then their intertwined lives had come crumbling down after a deal with the devil.

Well. She would see to it that Wilson (and Murdock) both regretted leaving her out of their shortsighted pact of mutually assured destruction, except as a chip to be bartered.

The first step was rebuilding resources. Money, connections. She considered her options, and chose one dispassionately. Human trafficking, the fastest-growing criminal enterprise in the world. It made sense; an illegal firearm or a batch of illicit drugs could be sold only once, but a person could be sold all day and all night. Wilson had even dabbled in it before, albeit primarily through the Ranskahov brothers. But their methods were so uncouth. Kidnapping their victims off the streets, locking them in cages, taunting them, hurting them…it all created an unnecessary amount of effort.

Vanessa preferred other means. Why not make sure that the victims were on _her_ side?

Over the course of about six months, she began building from the ground up. Finding young women and a few young men working the street, offering them protection and connections in exchange for their work. She reached out to old buyers of her art, inquiring as to whether they’d be interested in something else. Something better. Her sex workers had never made so much money in one night.

And then, she channeled the best of Wilson’s techniques. Learned shameful secrets, desperate needs, secret desires. She exploited them all, twitching at the threads of her web with such subtlety that her workers missed their own transition into enthrallment. They still thought of themselves as her partners even as she gained control of every aspect of their lives.

From there, she built a careful hierarchy among them, and then it was easy to grow her kingdom. Each of her workers vied for the chance to bring in more patrons…and more workers, placing themselves above the others. And when one of her workers, a girl of barely nineteen years old, brought her fifteen-year-old friend to Vanessa, saying nervously that her friend needed money, Vanessa heaped so much praise on them both that everyone in her kingdom noticed.

The expansion into child trafficking was effortless after that.

And Vanessa ran her ship well. If someone failed to make their quota of earnings, they were punished while those who exceeded expectations were rewarded. The money flowed. Vanessa shared some of it, and used more of it to lavish gifts on one or two of her minions at a time, enough to keep the others distracted with jealousy and ambition, two traits she stoked like fire until her kingdom ran on its own fuel. She also used modest sums (by her standard, at least) to acquire choice pieces of art or rare delicacies. Preferably imported, as America lacked taste.

She invested most of the money, however, in a more immediate interest: her own protection.

She put the best defense lawyers she could find on retainer, in case Murdock decided to make good on his legal threats. Then, after consulting with Wilson via his precious few prison calls, she spent tens of thousands of dollars to find the woman they called Madam Gao. After all, the fact that Murdock had protected Vanessa in the hotel did not mean he would spare once he traced her activities in his precious city back to her. She offered to pay whatever amount of money Gao wanted in exchange for bodyguards.

Gao insisted that her warriors could not be bought.

Vanessa wanted to know if vengeance was a more noble price.

When Gao learned that the trap for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen already had the perfect bait, she accepted.

~

Matt

Matt sat at his desk in their brand new office, trying not to fidget. He was supposed to be listening to a transcript from a hearing for the case of one of the few clients they had, but he couldn’t quite focus. Too caught up with the anxieties spiraling through his mind.

Rebuilding a law firm was difficult.

For one thing, they were broke. In all honesty, it didn’t really bother Matt; he’d never had the chance to get used to money enough to miss its absence. Karen didn’t seem bothered either: too obsessed on cracking her next PI case. Foggy, though? He’d given up a pretty comfortable life to come back to work with Matt and Karen, and Matt knew there were days when Foggy was dissatisfied (though he tried not to show it) or worried about how their tiny firm was going to make ends meet.

The good news was, they’d gotten some referrals from old clients, and a few old clients even returned. But they still had a lot to do to rebuild trust within the community.

And Matt understood that _he_ had a lot to do to rebuild trust within their firm. Foggy and Karen wanted this to work; he knew that. They wanted _him_. But that didn’t mean they trusted him not to make the same mistakes he had before. After all, it had only been a few months since they’d put Fisk away again. Which meant it had only been a few months since Matt had been…well, homicidal. And suicidal—because, yeah, _that_ had come out one night when they were all too many drinks in at Josie’s and Matt felt too buoyed up with the reality that they were here, doing this again. He hadn’t filtered himself like he normally would, and the ugly truth had come spilling out.

To their credit, Foggy and Karen only _openly_ treated him differently for about a week. But Matt still felt the need to prove himself to them more than ever, a constantly-encroaching pressure.

They could trust him. They could rely on him. It was gonna be fine; they could make this work.

He was trying so hard to believe it; he just needed to know that they believed it, too.

“Hey, buddy?” Foggy asked from about three feet away.

Matt startled, yanking an earbud out of his ear as his other hand came up to hover defensively near his chin. But it was just Foggy. Not a threat. He quickly lowered his hand and set his earbud aside. He hadn’t heard anything from the last ten minutes or so of the MacDowell transcript he was supposedly listening to, too caught up in his thoughts to pay attention. “Sorry, what?”

“You okay, man?” Foggy inched closer. “It’s normally impossible to sneak up on you.”

At least he wasn’t commenting on how instinctively Matt had tried to guard himself. Good, because there wasn’t anything to comment on. Matt’s reaction was nothing more than the result of his years of training, nothing to do with PTSD or C-PTSD any other collection of letters that Foggy and Karen occasionally whispered about.

(They treated him the same openly, but he heard the anxious consultations they sometimes held when they thought he was out of earshot.)

“I was…” Matt made up his mind in a split second not to lie and say he was actually listening to the MacDowell transcript. “Thinking.”

“Good thoughts, I hope,” Foggy said, and didn’t pry. Instead, he nudged Matt’s half-drunk coffee mug aside so he could sit on the edge of the desk.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Matt invited him dryly. “No need to stand on formalities on my account.”

Foggy snorted. “How very hospitable of you. Anyway, listen, Brett just called.”

Matt sat up straighter. “Client?”

“If we want her, yeah. Brett wanted to give us a shot before they called in the PD. He said she won’t be able to pay us, though.”

Which meant Brett wasn’t doing this for their sake. He was doing this for hers. “Who is she?”

Foggy’s voice darkened. “Depends on who you ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've done a lot of research on sex trafficking and have worked with a lot of people involved in fighting it; I've also worked with some survivors. So I want to take a moment just to say that, as scary and awful as the Ranskahov brother's operation was, sex trafficking rarely looks like that. It's rarely the result of strangers kidnapping young women off the streets; it's more often a web of connections and psychological machinations, such as what Vanessa's employing here. Anyway, I have a longer fic in the works addressing this topic more thoroughly, but it seemed fitting for Vanessa, so I'm introducing it here.
> 
> Plus, Pikkulef has a work that addresses this topic as well. I highly recommend checking it out!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: they interview their new client in this chapter. There's not a lot of detail, but it's clear that she has been pulled into Vanessa's sex trafficking ring.

_They are free from common human burdens;_

_they are not plagued by human ills._

~

Matt

According to the NYPD, she was a juvenile delinquent.

According to Brett, she was a victim of child sex trafficking.

The hallways at the precinct were as disgusting and echoey as ever, but it was the tiny, rapid heartbeat waiting for him on the other side of the interrogation room door that made something dangerous and protective rise in Matt’s chest.

Her name was Tiara Jones and she was sixteen years old and so small that Matt half-wondered if her bones would be better suited for a bird. There was bruising on her arms, and something like an old burn injury on her back. Her feet were crossed at the ankle, secured by chains, and her hands were cuffed to the table. Underneath the scents of the precinct and her starched jumpsuit, she smelled of the street, and cloying perfume, and men, and sex.

She was facing one count of trespassing and one count of criminal possession of a weapon, since she’d apparently been found with a switchblade.

But Brett had interviewed her personally, and he was suspicious. More than most of his fellow cops, he’d helped survivors of trafficking when Matt sent them his way as Daredevil, which mean that he knew, more than most of his fellow cops, what red flags to look for.

And Tiara Jones had raised several red flags.

“Officially, she wasn’t charged with any prostitution-related offenses,” Brett explained in a low voice outside her room, “but I figure the two of you can talk to her, do what you do as defense attorneys, maybe get her diverted?”

Foggy nodded eagerly. “We can try. Thanks for reaching out.”

Brett shifted his weight uneasily. “Yeah, well, just don’t tell anyone.” Straightening his suit, he opened the door briskly. “Your attorneys are here to see you, Ms. Jones.”

The girl lifted her head; her hair, pulled back into a thousand tiny braids, brushed against her oversized jumpsuit. Her heartrate increased, but only barely. She said nothing.

Foggy’s heartrate sped up too; angry. The girl must paint a pitiful picture.

There was a cup of water on the table, though. Untouched by the girl. It carried Brett’s lingering scent; he must have gotten it for her.

Matt kept his voice soft and even. “Hi, Ms. Jones. My name is Matthew Murdock, and this is my partner, Foggy Nelson.”

“Foggy,” she echoed flatly, voice high and young and unimpressed. If Matt couldn’t hear her heartbeat, couldn’t sense the tension in her small body, he would’ve thought she was bored.

“It’s a nickname,” Foggy offered.

She didn’t respond.

“May we sit?” Matt asked.

No response.

“She nodded enthusiastically,” Foggy stage whispered.

“I did _not_ ,” Tiara spat.

“May we sit, though?” Foggy asked more politely.

“I don’t care.” Her voice was dull now.

“Cool.” Foggy nudged Matt, and they both took their seats opposite her.

Taking a deep breath, Matt folded his hands on the table. “Ms. Jones, you’ve been charged with two misdemeanors. This means you’re considered a juvenile delinquent rather than a juvenile offender. The good news is that your case will be held in Family Court rather than Criminal Court, and the penalties will be lower if you’re found guilty because you’re not an adult.”

Tiara scuffed her shoe against the floor, making the chains clink together. “What’s the bad news?”

“The bad news is that a long process has been triggered here. You’re looking at several potential hearings where the judge tries to understand what’s going on. Depending on your situation, you might be sent back here to detention in between hearings. Obviously, we don’t want that for you.”

She hesitated. “You don’t?”

Foggy jumped in. “We’re here to help you. And we know that detention centers aren’t…pretty.”

Her chin lifted. “Maybe you couldn’t handle it. I can.”

“But we’d rather you not have to,” Matt said gently, resolutely ignoring the pang in his chest at her words. “There’s…another option, potentially. We have reason to believe that maybe your situation is a little more complicated.” He took a moment to get his thoughts in order; he had to be careful not to ask too many leading questions or tell her about the advantages she’d find if it was true that she’d been trafficked. He needed her to tell her story honestly, not shape it to meet his expectations.

While he was thinking, Foggy spoke up. “We’re going to ask you some questions about what happened. It’s really important that you answer as honestly as possible. Don’t leave anything out. And don’t worry, whatever you tell us stays with us. It’s just that the more you tell us, the better we can help you. Makes sense?”

She shrugged.

That was probably as good as they were going to get. “When you were arrested,” Matt began, “were you alone?”

“Yes,” she said, quickly and precisely. Too quickly, maybe?

“What were you doing at that bar?”

She aimed her words at the table; her voice echoed off its flat surface. “Nothing. Just hanging out. Like I told the cop.”

“Why didn’t you leave when they asked you to leave?”

She shrugged again. “Didn’t want to.”

“Why didn’t you want to? Aren’t there other places you could hang out?”

She bit her lip; more importantly, her heartrate sped up faster than it had when he and Foggy first entered the room. Because she was about to lie? Or because his questions were getting closer to the heart of her situation?

“Ms. Jones?” he asked carefully.

She curled her hands into fists on the table, nails digging into her palms. “I was supposed to meet someone.”

“Who?” Foggy asked.

“Supposed to?” Matt asked at the same time.

“Sorry,” Foggy said quickly, gesturing at Matt. “Answer his question first.”

“What?” Tiara’s voice was blank.

Matt leaned forward, giving her his best version of his “concerned puppy dog” face, as Foggy called it. “What do you mean, you were _supposed_ to meet someone? Was it arranged?”

She didn’t say _duh_ or anything similar, like it was obvious. Her tone was clipped and thin when she said, “Yes.”

Matt tilted his head. “Who arranged it, Ms. Jones? Did you?”

Her heart was racing now. “Does that—why’s that matter?”

She wasn’t just nervous now; fear was seeping into the room, and it was sounding more and more like Brett might be right. With great effort, Matt kept all traces of anger out of his voice. “Please just answer the question.”

Her nails dug harder into her palm; she was about to make herself bleed.

Matt hated to pressure her, but he couldn’t help her unless he knew more of her story. “Was it a man?”

Her hands were trembling now, just a little. Maybe not even enough that Foggy would be able to see it. But Matt could hear the near-silent _clink_ _-clink_ of the handcuffs. She shook her head.

“A woman?” Matt asked quietly.

“Shauna,” she whispered.

“Who’s Shauna?”

“She’s…” Tiara swallowed hard. “She’s—she’s the one who told me about all this. Said how much money I could make. I wouldn’t have to live with my uncle anymore. I’d never have to see him again, he’d never get to—” She cut herself off, swearing under her breath.

Matt tasted the salt of her held-back tears. He itched to go out and hunt down this uncle of hers, but that wouldn’t help anything. Not yet, anyway. “Do you work for Shauna?”

“I work _under_ Shauna,” Tiara corrected. “We all work for Angel.”

Matt nodded slowly. “Who’s Angel?”

She shook her head. “That’s just what we call her. No one knows who she really is. But…” Her voice got breathier. “She has _so much money_.”

“How do you know?” Foggy asked.

Tiara tilted her head. “I got to go to her place once. Right when I started. Fanciest place I’ve ever been. And she gave me this food that was…” She licked her lips; her stomach growled in tandem. Then she pulled on her chains and slumped back in her seat. “Whatever.”

Matt wondered when she’d last eaten. He should be able to tell. The fact that he couldn’t made him want to send Brett out for a burger. Two burgers and a chocolate milkshake. Did she like chocolate? Girls liked chocolate, right? Karen lived on chocolate.

He refocused. “You said you work for her. When you say _work_ , what do you mean? What is your work?”

Her answering scoff was suddenly cold; it sounded like it belonged to a woman three times her age. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m a prostitute.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By law, there's no such thing as a child prostitute or child sex worker because a child cannot consent. However, these minors often identify themselves as prostitutes.
> 
> In other news, I just love Brett so much.


	3. Chapter 3

_They say, “How would God know?_

_Does the Most High know anything?”_

_This is what the wicked are like—_

_always free of care, they go on amassing wealth._

~

Matt

All the way back to the office, Foggy wouldn’t shut up.

First it was about Tiara herself. “I wish you could’ve seen her face, Matt. I mean, no, I don’t, she looked _awful_ , but she was trying so hard to keep it together, you know? Like, wow. I wouldn’t be that brave in her situation…”

Then it was about the case. “She’s a minor, she’s involved in prostitution, so she should be diverted. We just gotta establish her as a PINS case, or whatever…”

Matt opened the door to the office, fighting to suppress the growing frustration building in his chest. “I doubt it’s that simple, Foggy.” Besides, he wanted to be doing something other than rifling through paperwork. He wanted to go out and hunt down ever single person who’d taken advantage of this little girl. Besides, Tiara had eventually admitted what Matt already suspected: that she was far from the only victim caught in Shauna’s web.

Or, more accurately, caught in this Angel person’s web.

Karen was a burst of energy intercepting them as soon as they stepped inside, already talking so fast that even Matt had a hard time keeping up. “It’s not, I’ve been researching.” Non-stop, Matt assumed, since Foggy had texted her about their new client’s situation. “Since she wasn’t charged with a prostitution-related offense, we’ll have to first convince the Family Court judge that she qualifies under the safe harbor law as either someone who’s been trafficked or someone who’s at-risk. That’s the judge who’ll determine if she qualifies as a Person In Need of Supervision. Then we’ll work with the Office of Children and Family Services to get her a case manager and make sure she has access to all the resources she needs.”

Foggy, whose shoulders had started to tense up, relaxed. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Doesn’t it?” Karen retorted. “Proving that she’s been trafficked or that she’s at-risk won’t be a cakewalk. Especially if we get a judge who doesn’t understand the nuances. Most of them are old, white men who won’t give a young black girl like Tiara the benefit of the doubt.”

“That’s what we’re for,” Matt said grimly.

Karen ran her hand through her hair. “Right, he’s more likely to listen to you, but still. We need evidence. Are you even sure Tiara will be willing to tell her story?”

Matt sensed Foggy’s head turn in his direction; a one-sided exchange of glances. “She didn’t even tell _us_ the story,” Matt admitted. “She just…hinted at it.”

“Great, so that’ll be its own problem unless you can find another witness.” Karen set her hands on her hips, tapping her fingers against the waistband of her slacks in a nervous tick she’d picked up from Matt at some point. “And that’s not even getting to the fact that this girl may not _want_ all the services available, and those services might not _stay_ available if she decides she’s better off on her own, or goes back to her traffickers, or—”

“Whoa,” Foggy cut in, “can we maybe not jump a _thousand_ steps ahead? Let’s just…start with building her PINS case, all right?”

Karen’s sigh was doubtful. And honestly, Matt couldn’t blame her.

~

That night, Matt forewent his armor. Much as he wished otherwise, he wasn’t planning on fighting tonight. He put on jeans, a hoodie, and tennis shoes.

(So he could fight if he _had_ to. Or if…the opportunity arose. But he didn’t want to advertise that he was the Devil.)

He made his way out to the bar where Tiara had been arrested and tried not to immediately flashback to Foggy dragging him to bars in law school. Between the smells and the noise and the sheer number of _people_ , they weren’t really his thing. (Besides, he’d always rather be studying.) There was no point going inside tonight; in fact, going inside would make it a lot harder to do what he was hoping he’d have to do.

Instead, he pulled his hoodie up over his head and leaned casually against the outside of the bar, hands in his pockets, the heel of his right foot propped against the wall, feeling the coolness of the brick seep through his hoodie along with the pulsing of the base from the band inside. As he acclimated to the barrage of sounds and smells, he cast his senses further out, searching for any sign that something was…wrong.

After five minutes, he’d gotten nothing except way too many banal conversations and the beginning of a headache. Reconnaissance was all well and good, but his skills were not well-suited to spying on people in a bar. He refused to quit, but he was fast loosing hope that he’d accomplish anything here tonight.

Until a young woman’s footsteps (her high heels creating a spiky echo with each step) stuttered on her way into the bar as she did a double-take in his direction. She was maybe twenty-one years old and she smelled like Tiara had, minus the lingering scents of the precinct. A chill raced down his spine when he realized she had the same kind of burn injury on her back. What was it, some kind of _branding?_

He held perfectly still.

She took a second to adjust herself: fluff her hair and untuck a lock of it from behind her ear so that it draped in front of her face; he heard it brushing against her skin. Standing up straighter, she smoothed down her tight dress. Angling her head at just the right angle, she walked over. Straight towards him.

Matt tensed. This was…this was so very much _not_ an encounter he was prepared to have.

She came to a stop in front of him. “Hey.” Her voice was perfectly pitched: loud enough to be heard even for a man without his senses, but simultaneously sweet and feminine. “Can I borrow a cigarette?”

Anything to start a conversation; that was how it went. Matt had heard countless variations of this routine over the last few years, echoing around the city while he was listening for screams. “Uh…” He didn’t want to give any indication that he was interested in what she was actually offering, but he also didn’t want her to leave until she’d answered a few questions. “I don’t really have any. Sorry. But,” he added quickly, “but, um, do—do—do you come here often?”

He cringed. In his head, Foggy was facepalming.

To his surprise, she didn’t immediately turn in disgust. She laughed musically. “You’re cute. Just say what you want, honey.”

Matt felt his face heat up; he hoped it was too dark for her to be able to tell. “Um. I’m—I was actually hoping I could talk to you. Maybe I could, uh, buy you a drink?”

“And you’re polite, too.” She leaned in, minty breath ghosting across his face, one delicate hand settling on his shoulder. “This is my lucky night.”

It was a good act, but Matt could tell two things: first, that she wasn’t at all attracted to him; second, that her guard was still up.

This wasn’t going to work. Abort mission, abort mission, abort—

Matt pressed himself back against the bricks. “I just want to talk,” he blurted out.

She pulled back. “What?”

“Look, I’m sorry, I just—” He stopped, forced himself to slow down and not stammer. “I’m trying to find someone. She’s…she’s called Angel…?”

And just like that, all the flirtatiousness evaporated. “You can’t ask me about her. If there’s nothing else you’re interested in—”

“What about Shauna?” he asked recklessly. “Can you tell me who she—”

“Stop. Just—stop.” She stepped back, and _now_ her heart was speeding up. “You seem like a nice guy, all right? So trust me. Leave this alone.” She spun around; her high heels hurried into the bar.

Alone, Matt banged his head back against the wall. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself, “that was so—” He cut himself off.

Now that he was more familiar with it, her voice rang out loud and clear amidst the general cacophony. “I didn’t say anything,” she was whispering fiercely. “I _swear_.”

“Who was he?” a male voice demanded, rough from alcohol or rough from yelling too much.

“I don’t _know_ , _please_ —”

“What’d he want with Angel?”

“I don’t know, I left, I swear—”

The man swore and did something that made her yelp. “Then you can go tell Angel yourself.”

Matt’s mouth opened in shock; this wasn’t what he’d wanted at all. He took a half-step towards the bar just as he heard a back door swing open, then slam shut. The young woman’s heels click-clacked at a rapid, stumbling pace, accompanied by a man’s heavier footfalls. A car door opened and shut; an engine started.

 _Shit_. Mat sprinted across the parking lot of a bar, heading straight for a rundown restaurant across the street. There was a massive dumpster out back; he easily climbed from there onto the roof even as he kept his ears on the car. He leapt from the restaurant to the roof of another building, scrambling up a ladder to get even higher.

He hadn’t chased a car across Hell’s Kitchen since he’d tracked Madam Gao’s slaves. It would’ve been fun now if not for the fact that he was directly responsible for whatever happened to this girl as punishment for his questions.

By the time the car finally stopped, he was winded with a searing stitch in his side. He doubled over on the roof of the apartment across the street from the car, fighting to catch his breath and dripping sweat under his hoodie. (Jeans, by the way, were a _terrible_ idea for tonight.)

The man dragged the woman out of the car and towards a staircase leading to a massive apartment that buzzed with electricity and movement from top to bottom. She was crying silently.

Matt _moved_.

He flipped forward off the edge of the roof, landing almost silently on the balls of his feet, tennis shoes flexing easily. He sprinted across the street, trusting speed and the darkness to disguise him. Besides, he didn’t have time to slow down; the man was gripping the back of the woman’s neck, holding her by the front door as he punched in a code.

Multiple locks disengaged; the front door opened and the girl was shoved inside.

“Hey!” someone shouted, a new voice from the doorway, and Matt realized he’d been seen. He shoulder-rolled back behind the car just in time for a spray of gunfire to shatter the vehicle’s windows.

A second later, the door shut and the locks reengaged. But Matt could easily hear the men screaming at the woman.

He punched the asphalt. Stupid, _stupid_. Whatever they did to her, it was his fault. He shouldn’t have let her talk to him, shouldn’t have asked questions, shouldn’t have let them take her away. Should’ve been faster, should’ve been smarter, should’ve—

His thoughts came to a screeching halt as a new, accented voice effortlessly quieted the shouting from inside the building.

“It’s all right, darling,” the new voice soothed. “You’re all right. Just tell me what happened.”

Matt felt like the air had been punched from his lungs.

That was Vanessa Fisk’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long story short: New York, like most U.S. states, has enacted a "safe harbor" law, designed to protect minors from prosecution for prostitution-related offenses. It turns the minor into a PINS (Person In Need of Supervision) and offers them lots of services. In my opinion, these laws are a great step in the right direction, but fall short of making a difference in about 80% of cases, because in about 80% of cases minors who've been selling sex (either on their own for survival, or under a pimp/trafficker) don't know how (and don't necessarily even want) to take advantage of the services offered; they don't know how (and don't necessarily even want) to live a "normal" life. It's a really, really complex situation. And it's not the focus of this fic; I just want to mention it because I personally am passionate about coming up with a better system. In the meantime, idk, lawyers and legislatures should both learn more about psychology and trauma-informed care. That's all.
> 
> Aside from that, I miss Matt doing parkour, but lol it's also REALLY hard to describe that in writing, so just...imagine that awesome scene from Season 1, pls and thank you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: cliffhanger, kind of? Is this a cliffhanger?

_Therefore pride is their necklace;_

_they clothe themselves with violence._

~

Matt

The next morning, Matt limped into the office. No one at Vanessa’s apartment had shown any interest in doing more to scare him off than shooting in his general direction, leaving him free to case the place, only to discover that there was no easy way in. Each door had mechanical locks wired to some kind of alarm, and tapping on a window confirmed that they wouldn’t be broken without the aid of his clubs. And even then, he wouldn’t be able to break in undetected.

Which normally wouldn’t be a problem, except that…well, something about the place set his teeth on edge, made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. It wasn’t just the fact that Vanessa Fisk was running a sex trafficking ring out of this fancy apartment—it was the odd sensory input he was receiving. Motion, lots of motion, but no defined shapes. The few footsteps he picked up on were nearly-silent, and weren’t proportional to the amount of movement. He was _missing_ something.

Matt gritted his teeth. But breaking in only to get caught would almost certainly fall back on the woman and Vanessa’s other victims.

So he retreated, anger unspent, and trudged for miles across town. It was after three in the morning by the time he finally stopped at Fogwell’s apartment to unleash his frustration, knowing he’d be unable to get any sleep at all until then. It was after four by the time he finally got back to his apartment, showered, and collapsed into bed.

It seemed both unscientific and unfair that so much stiffness and soreness could set in after just three hours of sleep.

He was never wearing jeans again as long as he lived.

“The hell happened to you?” Foggy greeted him when he slunk into the office. “You’re all…broody.”

Being called broody only made Matt feel worse, which he suspected only made Foggy more confident in his accusation, which only made Matt more irritated about the whole situation. It was all sure to coalesce into actual broodiness at any moment, so Matt retreated into the kitchen for coffee. (Now that Karen wasn’t working under them, she’d put her foot down about making coffee for them. Matt had pretended to be regretfully understanding while Foggy had unapologetically celebrated.)

Karen appeared from her own office. “Did something happen?” she asked, showing her usual knack for being eerily good at sensing emotions even from another room.

Glaring at the coffee maker, Matt reported that he’d found out last night.

Foggy and Karen did not take the news well.

“You’re serious?” Foggy started pacing furiously in the office, heart walloping angrily in his chest. “Vanessa. Vanessa _Fisk_. _Our client_ is being exploited by _Vanessa Fisk_.”

“Vanessa Fisk is exploiting lots of people,” Matt corrected.

Foggy whirled around, jabbing a finger at Matt. “ _You_ made a deal with him! _You_ promised we’d leave her alone!”

“It was the only way to keep him from going after you,” Matt insisted.

“We can take care of ourselves,” Karen muttered from where she stood in the corner, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Foggy jabbed his finger at her next. “No, we cannot, we can definitely not.” Groaning, he slumped down into one of the chairs in their lobby. “Guys, guys, guys, we cannot be doing this.”

“Doing what,” Matt mumbled, prodding at the coffee maker, which made a sluggish noise as if in response.

“Going after Vanessa! Which I know is what you’re both wanting to do right now.”

Matt half-expected Karen to object to Foggy’s mind-reading. The fact that she didn’t meant Foggy wasn’t wrong. Matt frowned in her general direction.

Before he could say anything, though, Foggy presented what he clearly thought was a plan with no room for argument: “We gotta tell Brett.”

Of course. Because that was Foggy’s solution to everything: let someone else deal with it.

“Yes, Matt?” Foggy prompted testily. “You’re making that face.”

Matt shifted his weight, adjusting his mug as coffee finally began trickling out of the machine. But he really was getting better with the whole honesty thing because he ended up saying, “We can’t involve Brett.”

“And why’s that?” Foggy asked, almost patiently.

Abandoning the coffee for now, Matt turned around, hands on his hips. “It’s Vanessa _Fisk_. She’s not playing around here, Fogs. What do you think’s gonna happen when she realizes Brett’s onto her?”

“She’ll be pissed,” Foggy said matter-of-factly. “But so what? She’s not the Punisher, she’s not leading an army of ninjas. She might have some goons, but I’m sure the NYPD can handle it.”

“How sure?” Matt asked darkly.

“What, you—you want me to put a percentage on it?”

“Yes. Because that’s the number you’re gonna have to use to justify to yourself why you made Brett get involved after Vanessa murders his mother in retaliation.”

“Or even just in warning,” Karen pointed out, arms folded tightly around herself.

“Guys,” Foggy protested. “Taking down bad guys is his _job_.”

“Why is why he can’t say no,” Matt insisted. “Look, I’ll take care of it.”

That went over about as well as he’d expected.

“No,” Foggy said.

“What?” Karen demanded.

Matt took an automatic step backwards. “She thinks she’s invincible, legally. And for all we know, she might be. But I can get in there, I can—”

“What?” Foggy demanded. “Beat her up? That’s your plan?”

Matt shrugged uncomfortable. As far as he knew, Vanessa was a noncombatant. Attacking her physically felt wrong. But only until he remembered the sound of Tiara’s terrified heartbeat in the interrogation room as she spoke about someone called Angel. “If I have to,” he said evenly, knowing better than to show any doubt or hesitation in front of Foggy.

“Okay.” Taking a deep breath, Foggy stepped closer. “Here’s the thing. This is a…really intense case. And you’re right, it’s not just _our_ case. It’s all the people Vanessa’s taking advantage of, all over Hell’s Kitchen. Which makes it even more important that we stop her the right way.”

Matt should really just…not say anything. He didn’t need Foggy’s approval. Except that…they’d barely started working together again; he didn’t want to ruin that. So instead of retreating into silence, he stood his ground. “It makes it even more important that we stop her.”

Foggy nodded encouragingly. “We, yes. Not you, alone. That’s all I’m asking for here, buddy.”

Karen chewed on her lip. “Matt makes a good point though, Foggy. Only one of Vanessa’s victims is our client. How are we supposed to help the others?”

“Not by going in there and beating people up, that’s for sure!”

Matt wondered if it was worth pointing out that it wasn’t that simple, wondered if Foggy would care about the tactics involved.

“Besides.” Foggy took another deep breath, and now his heart was beating a little faster. (Matt tensed instinctively.) “I’m just saying. It…it hasn’t been _that_ long since, y’know…”

“Since what?” Matt asked sharply.

Foggy shuffled his feet, then seemed together himself. “Since you wanted to kill Fisk.”

Matt pulled back, partly in shock and partly because he didn’t want to punch him. “Excuse me?”

Foggy bristled defensively. “Look, I don’t know what’ll happen if you go charging in there, but I bet there’s gonna be lots of…I don’t know, adrenaline, whatever, and…and Vanessa won’t go down easy, and…and maybe you’ll find something really awful in there, like, um, like…”

“Like what?” Matt growled.

“The whole reason you started being Daredevil was because someone was abusing a little girl!” Foggy burst out. “So clearly this is, like, sensitive, or whatever—”

Matt gaped at him. “Are you saying _you_ wouldn’t—”

Foggy threw up his hands. “I’m saying I’m not sure you can handle going in there looking for a fight!”

“Right,” Matt spat, the words acidic on his tongue, “because I might accidentally try to commit murder.”

To his dismay, and anger, and shame, Foggy didn’t immediately apologize or backtrack. Instead, the other man rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I mean…”

Because it wouldn’t exactly be unprecedented.

“It hasn’t been that long,” Foggy said at last, very quietly. “That’s all I’m saying.”

Oh. So Foggy really didn’t have any faith in him. Not that Matt deserved any faith, but…but…what was the point of trying to make this work, _again_ , if Foggy thought Matt was so close to—

Matt turned towards Karen, searching for any sign that she felt the same way. But he couldn’t get a read on her at all.

Which was almost scarier.

~

Karen

None of them really got any work done after that. They all took refuge in their separate offices, but Karen was all too familiar at this point with the fact that Matt and Foggy were _useless_ at work when they were fighting.

Karen knew how to compartmentalize, though. Which was why she kept the office running whenever Matt and Foggy fell into one of their seasons of angsting at and about each other.

But today, she just wasn’t interested in focusing on any of her PI cases.

She didn’t really agree with Foggy: she didn’t think Matt was so unstable that he’d just, _whoops_ , break Vanessa’s neck. (But she also wasn’t sure Matt would be wrong to do so.) What she _did_ know, though, was that this conflict was gonna eat away at both Matt and Foggy and keep both of them from doing anything to either help their client or stop Vanessa in general. She also knew that neither she nor Mat would be satisfied with only helping their client, not now that they knew there was a whole network of people Vanessa was exploiting to build her own little criminal empire.

By the time they all left the office by the end of the day, she had a plan. The rough outlines of one, anyway. It was simple; she did it with Fisk, and it worked. (Well, mostly.) It would work with Vanessa, too.

First, she texted Matt for the approximate address of Vanessa’s apartment, hoping he’d assume she wanted to do research. Whatever he assumed, he texted back the cross streets without so much as a “be careful,” and she only felt a tiny bit guilty for not telling him her real plans.

She shrugged off the guilt; she was just spending too much time around Matt.

Then, she dressed in neutral colors; Vanessa wasn’t an idiot, but she _was_ an artist, and Karen wanted to do everything she could to present herself as nonthreatening. Cream-colored blouse, sage-green jacket, and muted gray pants paired with understated tan boots. No jewelry, though; she’d worked on enough crimes by now to know how easily a necklace could be twisted into a chokehold or earrings could be torn out.

Next, she got a small microphone, one of many odds and ends she’d smuggled from the _Bulletin_ (hey, she was poor and trying to fight all the most evil people New York had to offer; she didn’t feel guilty at all for stealing some supplies from a paper that annually ran articles about subway colors) and slipped the microphone under her shirt. The goal, of course, was to not confess to any crimes during this meeting. If she slipped up, well, she was pretty good at editing audio footage. Matt and Foggy might complain that the resulting footage wouldn’t be admissible in court, but she didn’t need it to be admissible. She just needed it to be enough to get the police to take Vanessa seriously.

Finally, she slipped her phone and keys into a back pocket. No need for a purse that would definitely be searched. No point trying to bring any weapons; no way Vanessa would be stupid enough to overlook them. She was going in empty-handed.

And yes, that fact made her heart pound too hard and too fast in her chest, but when was the last time she’d let fear stop her from doing what she knew she had to do?


	5. Chapter 5

_Their mouths lay claim to heaven,_

_and their tongues take possession of the earth_

~

Karen

From the outside, the apartment looked like any other. On the nicer side, sure, but it definitely didn’t look like the kind of place Fisk would choose for his wife. Maybe that was the point? Maybe this was Vanessa’s choice? Her gallery, after all, had been understated.

Karen knocked. And listened.

After about a minute, footsteps approached brusquely. Whoever it was made no effort to be stealthy; they weren’t doing what _she_ always did when someone showed up unexpectedly: creeping up to the door without a sound to peer through the peephole before deciding what to do.

But that made sense. Karen had probably been identified long before she knocked.

The fact that it was a woman who opened the door, smiling politely, and not one of the thugs Matt had heard yelling at the sex worker, told Karen that the games were already beginning. The woman was beautiful—tall, dark skin, auburn hair—and dressed in a sleek, professional pantsuit. Karen felt scrappy by comparison.

“Hello, Miss…?”

“Page,” Karen said, watching for any hint of surprise.

There was none. Maybe because the woman was honestly unfamiliar with Karen’s journalism, or maybe because whoever ID’d Karen and decided to send this woman instead of the thugs had told her what to expect. “And you’re here to see…?”

“Vanessa. Vanessa Fisk.”

Again, no hint of surprise. “She’s not expecting visitors. If you wait here in the lobby, I’ll see if she can make the time.”

“Thanks so much,” Karen said, unable to bite back all the sarcasm in her voice. She stepped into the…well, lobby was a good enough word. Fancy chairs clustered around tables, a grand piano in front of floor-to-ceiling windows. Karen wondered if she’d get in trouble for trying to play it.

The woman gestured. “Please, sit.”

Karen sat. It was a sign of how elegant the place was that, in the middle of wondering if Vanessa would kill her for coming here, she felt slightly guilty for messing up the pristine grain of the chair’s velvety material.

She was kept waiting for an hour and eight minutes. Why, was Vanessa really so busy? Or was this some kind of mind game? Or was Vanessa just not curious at all?

Finally, the woman returned, waiting just long enough to pat Karen down for weapons before leading her out of the lobby. The problem, Karen realized as she was escorted into a mirrored elevator, was that by the time she’d gone to see Fisk, she’d already _known_ him. She’d known him through his repeated assassination attempts; she’d known him through digging through his past and talking to his mother; she’d known him through his faithful Wesley’s sickening monologue; and she’d known him through the bits and pieces of his court case crawling sluggishly through the overloaded system.

Vanessa, though? Did anyone know her, really, except as Fisk’s woman?

The elevators came to a stop on the seventh floor; the doors slid open. The woman gestured for Karen to step out into the hallway first. Something about the whole situation kind of made Karen want to stay in the relative safety of the elevator. Instead, she walked out into the open.

Vanessa’s silhouette was waiting for her at the other end of a long hall. Vanessa turned slowly, lowering a phone from her ear. “Oh, good.” She started walking down the hall towards them. “You found us.”

There was movement behind Karen; she glanced over her shoulder to see the other woman retreating into the elevator. The doors closed again.

Vanessa stopped in front of Karen, sliding her weight to one leg with her arms crossed loosely. “Miss Page. How lovely to finally meet you. Since you didn’t come with a gun, I assume you came for conversation?”

Karen narrowed her eyes. “If you can spare the time.”

“If you can make it worth my while,” Vanessa countered, dark eyes studying Karen like she was an interesting puzzle to solve. Not too challenging of a puzzle, either; just one you might distract yourself with if you were bored on a Saturday night because your husband is in jail for being a mob boss. “Walk with me.”

Figuring she couldn’t really walk into _more_ of a trap, Karen fell into step beside her, trying to watch Vanessa’s every move while also scanning as much of the floor as she could. But she saw nothing out of the ordinary; she didn’t even see people—although she occasionally saw shadows ahead that weren’t paired with footsteps. By the time they reached the place, the shadows were gone.

“You wanted to talk,” Vanessa prompted eventually.

Taking a deep breath, Karen got straight to the point. “We know what you’re doing.”

“Oh? And what is it you think I’m doing?”

“Human trafficking.”

Vanessa’s laugh was soft, warm; she barely spared Karen a sideways glance. “You mean, giving poor women and men opportunities they’ve never dreamed of? Empowering them to pull themselves out of poverty?”

“How much of the money they make do you keep?” Karen demanded.

Vanessa smiled. “Any amount would be too much to you, I’m sure.”

“Do they even have a choice of then they work? Or who they _service?_ ”

“It’s a business, Miss Page. One that sometimes involves long hours, or working with…less tasteful individuals.”

Karen watched another shadow melt away as she approached, leaving nothing in its place. “Look, Vanessa. I know you’ll find a way to spin everything about this, and maybe no one will even be able to prove any different. But there’s one thing you can’t spin.”

Vanessa looked mildly amused. “And what’s that?”

“The children.”

Vanessa blinked once, slowly, like a cat. “What children?”

“The children who _work for you_ ,” Karen hissed. “Like—” She broke off. Better not to name Tiara. Vanessa could figure it out in less than a day if she wanted to, probably, but Karen wasn’t going to throw Tiara to the wolves like that.

“A bold accusation,” Vanessa murmured. “But, then, you’re known for that, aren’t you? Boldness. It’s admirable. Especially in a woman.”

“And what’s what you think you are? Admirable?”

Vanessa laughed lightly. “Oh, I don’t care. Admiration is so relative.”

What did she care about, then? “Well, don’t tell me you’re doing it for the money.” They rounded a corner. If the paintings on the wall had one theme, it was isolation. Spires, towers, stalagmites, and trees all rising above their surroundings, jetting up alone into the sky. “Fisk may have lost a lot, but I know the FBI didn’t find everything.”

“My husband’s money,” Vanessa said with a dismissive waive of her hand.

Oh. Interesting. Karen raised her eyebrows at her. “I mean, it’s yours now, if he gave it to you.”

“Karen.” Vanessa stopped and turned, smiling coldly as she ran her hands down Karen’s arm in a gesture that was almost maternal. “May I give you some advice? Gifts are never so simple.”

Karen thought she understood, in a way. After all, what woman hadn’t, at some point, realized that men’s gifts came with strings attached? If Matt was right, Wilson Fisk truly worshipped Vanessa. But that didn’t mean Vanessa wanted to be dependent on him.

“Does he know you’re doing all this?” Karen asked. “Wilson, I mean.”

“We don’t lie to each other.” With that, Vanessa started walking again.

Karen pushed it, just a little. “Does he approve?”

Vanessa laughed, but there was an edge to it. “You misunderstand our relationship.”

“I’m just saying.” Now Karen kept her eyes straight ahead, feigning disinterest. “Your husband went to all that effort to make the deal with Daredevil, just for you to ruin it?”

Vanessa’s voice sharpened. “Actually, you’ll find that the terms of the contract leave me out of it.”

Stopping, Karen spun to face her. “Right, you’re just a pawn.”

Vanessa’s eyes narrowed. “And what are you?”

“A PI.” She took a step closer. “How will your husband feel when my partners and I tie you to child sex trafficking and get you thrown in jail?”

“You’re trying to make me angry.” Vanessa pressed her lips into a thin line. “Well, I am not as easily angered as Wilson. You may leave now.”

Karen lifted her chin. “And if I don’t?”

“I asked politely, and it was such a small request, and yet you’re still so obstinate.” Vanessa paused to sigh, like she was a little disappointed that Karen was being so unreasonable. “What about this, Miss Page: you will leave my apartment and never come back, _and_ you will persuade your friends to leave me alone—both legally and otherwise, as it were—or else I will draw the attention of the FBI to the one murder they somehow seemed to miss as part of their investigation.”

Karen felt suddenly cold. “What murder?”

Vanessa’s eyes glittered like a snake’s. “James Wesley’s, of course.”

~

Needless to say, the nightmares struck as soon as she tried to sleep. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw Wesley’s blood-splattered shirt, felt the weight of the gun in her hands, imagined in the cold grip of handcuffs locked around her wrists. By five in the morning, she’d given up hope of rest.

She stumbled through the motions of getting dressed, putting on makeup, adding a single spritz of that perfume she knew Matt liked. By the time she got to the office, the sun was barely up and she felt like a zombie. She locked the door behind her, unable to shake her paranoia. It was a relief to sit at her desk with nothing but a wall at her back.

She must’ve dozed off, because some time later she jerked awake to the sound of the knob trying to turn, catching in the lock. Whoever was outside fumbled with the door for a few more seconds before she heard Matt’s voice, rough, almost scratchy. “Karen?”

Shooting to her feet (and swaying slightly at the subsequent head rush), she hurried to open the door. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just really early, and I didn’t expect you or Foggy to…” Frowning, she stepped back so Matt could shuffle in. Or, more accurately, _limp_ in. “Are you okay?”

He turned to flash her a weak grin, simultaneously treating her to a view of the massive purple bruise swelling across his left cheekbone. “Fine. What are you doing here so early?”

The nightmares flashed behind her eyes again. Shoving them back into the darkest corner of her mind, Karen leaned in closer to Matt, exhaling quietly as she reached for his face before stopping herself. “Shit, what happened?”

He shrugged gingerly. “Couldn’t sleep. Stayed out probably later than I should.”

So he hadn’t slept at _all?_ Well, at least they had that in common. She bit her lip. “This case, right?”

He nodded, looking suddenly so drained. “This case.” He started making his way into the kitchen, groping for the coffee machine.

Karen leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, arms around herself. She should tell him. Both what she’d done and about Vanessa’s threats. “Did you, uh…find anything?”

“Found a couple of Vanessa’s victims.” He shoved the lid of the coffee maker down. “None of them would talk to me.”

“Were you in the mask?” she asked doubtfully. “’Cause I kinda feel like…”

He shook his head. “I was dressed down. But what about you?” He tilted his head a bit in her direction; she still wasn’t sure if he did that to communicate attentiveness the way a sighted person would expect, or if he did it to somehow focus his senses on her specifically. Maybe both. “You asked for the address, so I assume you’ve been researching. But, uh…”

Shit, could he _smell_ Vanessa’s apartment on her? Maybe? Probably? She should’ve showered. Except—she didn’t _want_ to keep this a secret, right? Keeping it a secret was what got Ben killed. She should’ve warned him that Fisk knew what they’d done. Matt and Foggy needed to know before Vanessa’s threat blew up in their faces.

Matt’s eyebrows pinched together over his glasses. “Karen. What did you do?”

“I…” She hesitated, then blurted it out in a rush: “I went to see Vanessa, I’m sorry, it was stupid, I just thought—”

“You did _what?_ ”

“I just wanted her to know we’re onto her! It’s not like she doesn’t know how credible we are—we’ve taken Fisk down twice, so I thought maybe she’d…I don’t know, be more careful, tone things down, maybe go easier on her victims…”

Matt cocked his head in the other direction, mouth slightly parted, like he was thinking about that. He took his glasses off, letting them dangle from one hand while he rubbed at his forehead.

Karen swallowed. “I should’ve told you and Foggy, I’m sorry, but I knew you wouldn’t be okay with it, so—”

Now he looked wounded. “Karen…”

And, okay, yeah, Matt really had proven that he respected that sometimes she’d choose to do dangerous things. “Foggy wouldn’t,” she insisted.

Matt’s coffee finished percolating. “Yeah, that’s…that’s true.” He was quiet for a second. Then: “You think it’ll work? You think she’ll actually go easier on her victims?”

“We just have to wait and see, right?” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “And…can we maybe agree not to tell Foggy?”

She was a coward after all. She wanted to take it back. She didn’t.

Matt focused on pouring his coffee. “That you went to see Vanessa generally, or that you told her we know what she’s up to?”

“…All of it.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t take that well.” He threw her a smirk over his shoulder. “Although I kind of wouldn’t mind him being mad at you for once instead of me.”

“He’s not mad, Matt. He’s worried.” You’d think someone as smart as Matt would be able to figure that out. Except…Matt was obviously not very used to people worrying about him, so it was no wonder he so often misidentified it.

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

She bristled. “I was trying to help.”

“So help, but do it _safely_.” He pursed his lips, staring in her direction like she was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. “You’re so good at research. Why do you always feel like you have to confront people face-to-face?”

First off, just because she was good at research didn’t mean she was bad at confronting people face-to-face. (Except…well…okay, her track record wasn’t actually fantastic in that arena.) But he of all people should know that sometimes going on the offensive wasn’t about winning the battle but about winning the war. It was testing the other person, trying to knock them off balance. Or even just trying to get to know them a little bit better, turn them from something less like a ghost story and more like an actual human being.

She knew he knew that. So she set her hands on her hips and just said, “Really.”

To his credit, he seemed to get everything she wasn’t saying. He ducked his head a little. “Fair.” But then he stepped closer to her, coffee abandoned, looking up in her direction under dark eyelashes. “You, though,” he murmured, “are you okay? You’re kind of…” He touched her arm, the gesture both warm and fleeting. “You’re trembling.”

She had to tell him. He’d been so honest with her. And besides, it was the right thing to do. And besides, he was her friend. She _wanted_ to tell him; let him help her figure out how to handle this, let him carry some of the weight. She took a deep breath.

And Foggy came bursting in through the front door. “Ladies and gentlemen, I need your attention!”


	6. Chapter 6

_They scoff, and speak with malice;_

_with arrogance they threaten oppression_

~

Karen

Matt flinched like he’d actually been caught off guard (what, too focused on her to pay attention to Foggy? Wasn’t _that_ a delicious thought to dwell on as soon as they weren’t in crisis mode…) and quickly stepped away from her. “You always need attention, Foggy. It isn’t healthy.”

Meanwhile, Karen tried not to look too guilty. “What’s going on?”

Foggy stopped in the middle of the office, made sure Karen’s eyes and Matt’s senses (probably) were on him, and announced: “I subpoenaed her.”

Karen’s stomach flipped.

Matt’s mouth fell open. “You _what?_ ”

“I subpoenaed Vanessa,” Foggy repeated, a bit defensively now. “For Tiara’s case.”

Matt pressed his fingers against his eyelids. “You subpoenaed Vanessa Fisk.”

“Yeah!” he said stubbornly. “C’mon, Matt, she’s not _Fisk_ -Fisk. She doesn’t have his resources and she’s not the kind of person who rips people’s heads off—”

“She had Ray _killed_ ,” Matt said, strangled. “Did you forget?”

Foggy stiffened indignantly. “No! But—I’m just saying. It’s different. We put her on the stand, we ask the hard questions, and we end up with probable cause against her. You know Tower won’t be hard to sway now that he knows how bad her husband was.”

“It’s not Tower I’m worried about,” Matt snapped.

“Fisk is in prison, and this time he really is cut off from all his—”

“How do you know?” Matt shot back. “Or, forget Fisk, what about Vanessa? Hasn’t she proven she’s enough of a threat on her own?”

As soon as he said it, he cocked his head in Karen’s direction. She didn’t know what signal he was picking up on—she was too distracted thinking about what would happen when Foggy’s subpoena drove Vanessa to accuse Karen of murder.

Foggy folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t care. Karen’s tried her whole talk-at-them-until-they-give-something-away routine, Matt is _not_ allowed to show up and start punching people, so what other options do we have? We know the law, we’ll use it to our advantage.”

That wasn’t Foggy’s line; it was Matt’s. But it wasn’t terribly convincing now that they all knew Matt had expected her and Foggy to go along with it while _he_ went off by himself and worked outside the law.

Then again, this could work. Vanessa was smart, but Matt and Foggy were brilliant (when they wanted to be). They might be able to come up with a line of questioning that could trip her up. Especially if Karen told them what Vanessa told her, about how hard Vanessa was trying to establish herself as…well, as the new kingpin of crime. Maybe knowing that would help them craft questions that would get her to admit who was really behind the sex trafficking. Or maybe they could just get her mad. She _seemed_ so in control, but no one was in perfect control all the time.

But what about Wesley?

~

Matt

They spent the rest of the day working on their other cases, the ones unrelated to Vanessa. They wanted to be able to focus entirely on prepping for Vanessa’s deposition starting tomorrow, and they couldn’t do that with so many other things hanging over their heads. Matt and Foggy wrote motions and prepared questions for witnesses; Karen quietly took off to go to a few locations she’d been putting off visiting for her PI cases. Matt felt a pang of worry, accompanied by a stab of guilt from the knowledge that she didn’t want his worry.

It was just that she was obviously still upset. And not just angry, fired up about the case. Well, there _was_ that, but there was something else underneath, something that made her heart beat faster, something that put a tremor in her voice that didn’t belong there.

She was…scared? Not of anything immediate. But of something.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that she hadn’t told him what it was. They were still reworking things, the two of them. And if her pulse sometimes picked up when he got too close, that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

So.

By the day’s end, he felt tense, restless. _Wired_. He still had a couple of hours to kill before it was dark enough to go out, so he dressed for the gym and headed to Fogwell’s. The sink of his fist into the punching bag was more satisfying than usual; he imagined the faces of the men who were selling girls like Tiara. He imagined the faces of the men who were _buying_ girls like Tiara. He heard Vanessa’s voice in his ears as he pummeled the bag, caught her scent on the back of her tongue, and eventually the faces he was imagining took on more feminine traits.

Matt jerked to a stop at the realization; the bag swung back and hit him in the shoulder. Panting, he took a few steps back, trying to swallow down the twisting feeling in his stomach. He ripped off his wrist-wraps.

What was he _doing?_

Except—it wasn’t so wrong, was it? Sure, Vanessa was a noncombatant, but it wasn’t like Matt never unleashed a bit of the devil on people who weren’t fighting back. If they had information they were refusing to give up…or if they were engaged in something criminal and they were refusing to stop…he wasn’t _proud_ of throwing punches or breaking fingers with people like that, but it wasn’t _wrong_.

Was it?

Wetting his lips, he reached for his water bottle.

Hurting Vanessa couldn’t be wrong, if that was what it took to stop her.

So why did he feel so _guilty?_

Well. Foggy would probably blame his Catholicism. Maybe that was even accurate; Matt didn’t know. He felt a different type of twist in his stomach at the thought that Father Lantom would have known, and would have known exactly how to explain it. Maybe Maggie could, too, but…as much as he _wanted_ to be able to go to her for advice, they weren’t…quite…there yet.

Suddenly, as if his thoughts had summoned it, his phone started buzzing and chirping Foggy’s name. “ _Foggy. Foggy. Foggy._ ” Shoving his wrist-wraps in the pockets of his sweats, Matt dug around in his bag for his phone. “Hey, Fogs, what—”

The fear in Foggy’s voice was something Matt had never heard in his life. “She’s going after Theo.”

Matt pressed the phone harder against his hear. “What?”

“Matt, she’s—” Foggy’s voice shook. “She’s—there’s—she left a note, at my place, just—just Theo’s address, that’s all there was to it, it’s a _threat_ , Matt, shit, could you—”

“I’m on my way.” Matt hung up, swapped that phone for his burner, grabbed the strip of black cloth he kept in his bag for this exact kind of situation, and raced out of the gym.

He made it to Foggy’s brother’s home in less than ten minutes. Skidding to a stop in the roof of the apartment complex, he gulped for oxygen even as he strained his senses for any sign that something was wrong. But the apartment seemed normal. He could even sense Theo a few floors down, watching some TV show. A cooking show, it sounded like.

When Matt mostly had his breath back, he dug out the burner to let Foggy know. “Hey, I’m at Theo’s place. Everything’s fine.”

“Huh? That’s, uh…wow, that’s fast.” Foggy sounded distracted; it also sounded like he was pacing his kitchen in socked feet. “You sure he’s okay?” he added, voice pitched a little higher.

“Yeah, Theo’s in his living room watching TV. Nothing’s abnormal.” Matt wiped the sweat off his forehead before it could drip into his eyes. “Everything’s fine.”

“Oh.” But Foggy didn’t sound relieved. “Thanks, man. Seriously. But, so, um…was it, like…a false alarm, do you think? Or…”

Matt was no longer listening. Not to Foggy, anyway. There was sudden movement across the street. Actually, it was more like a sudden _lack_ of movement. Like several pairs of footsteps had been hurrying close, casually loud, only to freeze. And disappear.

Foggy’s voice was still rambling on in the phone. “ _Shh_ ,” Matt hissed, lowering it and dropping down into a crouch on the roof.

Maybe he was being paranoid. But this was Vanessa Fisk they were dealing with. 

And now that he was listening, focusing so intently on the exact spot where the footsteps had disappeared, the hairs on the back of his neck were starting to stand up. The fact that he couldn’t hear any heartbeats wasn’t unusual; it was too far away for that, even though the street was quiet. No, the chilling fact was that he couldn’t even hear _breathing_.

But he hadn’t imagined those footsteps.

Were the people, whoever they were, still there? Waiting silently? Why, why would they do that?

Unless they’d seen him on the roof. Unless they knew he was there to stop them.

Which meant it wasn’t a false alarm after all.

Slowly, Matt stood to his full height once again. If he was the only thing deterring these would-be attackers from going after Theo, he wasn’t going to hide. As he stood, he raised the phone to his ear again. “Hey, Foggy,” he began, voice low and carefully calm.

Foggy stopped mid-rambling. “—What?”

“Never mind about it being a false alarm.”

“ _What?_ ” Foggy yelped.

“Yeah, listen, can you swing by the gym? I left my stuff there, and I’m thinking I’ll be here a while.”

He hung up before Foggy could respond; he needed to keep his focus on that spot across the street, on the dangerous stillness. And he needed to keep part of his attention on Theo’s apartment. The only people who’d ever managed to really sneak past his senses were Elektra ( _don’t_ think about her), Stick (don’t think about him, either) and the Hand. There was no reason for the Hand to come back to Hell’s Kitchen, and less reason for them to care about Theodore Nelson, but this was Foggy’s brother. Matt wasn’t taking any changes.

 _If_ whoever it was across the street did manage to slip past Matt’s awareness, at least he’d hear if they tried to break into Theo’s room.

In the meantime, Matt paced the roof, not caring if anyone saw him. He _wanted_ them to see him; he needed them to know that Theo was protected.

And as he paced, he thought. He thought about the fear lingering in Karen’s voice and the utter panic in Foggy’s. He thought about the consequences Foggy was now facing for going after Vanessa through the law, and he thought about what consequences Karen might still face for going after Vanessa on her own.

Then he thought about what Vanessa might use against _him_ , if he decided to take things into his own hands. He curled his fists at his side because it was obvious what she’d use if he gave her a reason: she knew his name. (Even if Fisk hadn’t clued her in, Matt had gone and ripped off his mask right in front of her.)

But would anyone believe her, if she tried to share what she knew? Wilson Fisk’s wife accusing the blind lawyer responsible for putting Fisk behind bars of being the violent vigilante who was _also_ responsible for putting Fisk behind bars?

Then again, maybe it didn’t matter if they believed her. Maybe all that mattered was that they _listened_. Once that seed of doubt was planted…well. Matt would be naïve to think it would stop there.

Maybe he’d just have to make it so she couldn’t tell anyone.

Not— _not_ by killing her. No. But by breaking her jaw? And her hands, so she couldn’t write. Or maybe he should just put her in a coma for good measure. She deserved it, for all the things she’d done, for all the people she’d hurt. For how she’d turned a blind eye to all of Fisk’s operations…when she wasn’t actively directing them herself. She deserved _worse_ than a coma.

That wasn’t the point. The point was, he could put her in a coma without killing her.

Right?

Matt stopped pacing, tilting his head back to feel a cool breeze across his face, a counterpoint to the sick squirming in his gut. That awful feeling of guilt was back. And it wasn’t fair—he hadn’t even _done_ anything yet.

But maybe the reason attacking Vanessa felt so wrong had nothing to do with anything about _her_. Maybe it was just that, if he started down that road, Matt wasn’t—actually—exactly—entirely sure he knew where he’d stop.


	7. Chapter 7

_Surely in vain I have kept my heart pure_

_and have washed my hands in innocence._

~

Matt

Matt’s muscles were cramping. Unless he was meditating, he’d never been great at staying in one position very long (Stick would’ve been so disappointed in his inability to do a real stakeout), but confined to this rooftop he wasn’t able to do much more than pace as the night wore on.

Whatever it was, whoever they were, they didn’t make a move on Theo. But the terrifying thing was, Matt couldn’t pinpoint when they left. He _assumed_ they had when the sun rose and the day began and people started hurrying around on the streets below, getting to jobs and school and other obligations. Theo was among them, on his way to Nelson’s Meats. Matt shadowed him there, just to be safe, sticking to rooftops and trusting the participants in New York’s morning rush hour to be too busy to notice a masked man above them. Theo reached the storefront unscathed and without so much as a hint of trouble.

Matt, meanwhile, stopped on a roof a few buildings over, crouching behind a front sign that buzzed obnoxiously with neon, and called Foggy to give him the all clear.

Foggy sounded like he’d barely gotten more sleep than Matt had. “But someone _was_ going after him?”

“Think so,” Matt answered tiredly. “I’ll circle back to his apartment, see if I can pick up a—” He broke off with a yawn and fought to speak around it, “—a scent or something.”

Foggy’s answering sigh was a rush of static over the phone. “Dude, you sound exhausted. I mean, thank you—seriously, _thank you_ —but you should go home.”

“It wasn’t a false alarm, Foggy,” Matt argued. “Whoever it was, they’ll be back. Unless I stop them.”

Foggy was silent for a long time, long enough for Matt to start feeling a tiny bit anxious over whatever Foggy must be thinking but deciding not to say. Something about Matt not wanting to give up the chance for a fight, maybe. Foggy wouldn’t _explicitly_ accuse Matt of using his brother as an excuse to beat people up, but….

Foggy sighed again. “I dunno. You know how all this works better than I do. I guess I’m just…worried you’ll trip off a fire escape somewhere if you don’t at least sleep.”

Matt blinked. He couldn’t exactly hear heartbeats over the phone, but that sounded like genuine concern without a hint of the condescension that usually accompanied Foggy’s fear that Matt was on the verge of doing something Foggy thought (or hoped) he’d regret. “The scent won’t last. I’m not even sure it’ll still be there.” The morning rush hour tended to disperse scents pretty quick.

“All the more reason to just go home,” Foggy said softly. “Look, I’ll…I’ll withdraw the subpoena. She’ll back off while we figure something else out, okay?”

“Yeah,” Matt said darkly, forgetting to keep the Devil out of his voice as his fingers curled into fists. “I’m sure we will.”

“…Matt?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Whatever we figure out, we’ll do it _together_. Right? Right?”

The smart thing to do would be to nod and say “Of course, Foggy,” and hang up, take a nap, then go to Vanessa’s place before she knew what hit her. Stop her now, because otherwise they could turn around and realize Vanessa ordered Theo’s death just like she ordered Ray’s. (What was the _point_ in fighting fair when she didn’t?)

But because Matt was tried, and annoyed with himself for making Foggy worried, and annoyed with Foggy for being worried, and annoyed with himself for giving Foggy a whole history of reasons why he _should_ be worried, he shot back: “Because that’s done us so much good so far.”

“Matt.” There was a background noise like Foggy was closing a door. Probably trying to have the conversation where Marci wouldn’t overhear. “We’ve had this case for, like, two days. Please tell me you can wait a little longer before you decide breaking half the bones in Vanessa’s body is our only option.”

“I never said—”

“Go home, get some sleep. We’ll see you at the office, all right?”

Matt gritted his teeth. “Of course, Foggy.”

~

Matt went home, turned his phone off, napped for two hours, and got up with renewed purpose. Foggy could withdraw the subpoena if he wanted, but where was the guarantee that that would even make a difference? And whose safety should they be willing to gamble if Foggy was wrong?

And even if Foggy was _right_ , withdrawing the subpoena wouldn’t do anything more than get Vanessa off their backs. It wouldn’t help them secure justice for Tiara. And it wouldn’t help all the vulnerable people Vanessa was continuing to exploit night after night.

(Matt was trying not to think about all the people he could’ve helped if he hadn’t spent the night guarding Theo. On top of all the crimes he regularly stopped, he could’ve haunted the bars, the clubs, and the motels looking for the people caught in Vanessa’s web. He could’ve at least looked for the _children_ where they weren’t supposed to be. Instead, he’d left them to fend for themselves through the long hours of the night.)

Matt paced his living room, up and down, before coming to a stop in front of the closet. He couldn’t really sense his masks, red or black, tucked away under his dad’s boxing gear in a locked chest behind the wooden doors; he just got the general idea of fabric and latex. And yet the masks were there, practically glowing in his mind.

Reaching out, he unlocked the closet.

Wait, what was he _doing?_

Exhaling sharply, Matt turned away from the closet, heart hammering with a simultaneous mix of guilt and regret. Guilt for not going further, regret for going this far already. See, _want_ was a strange thing. It should be impossible to both want and not want something at the same time. But Matt’s fists wanted Vanessa to get what she deserved, and his brain wanted to make sure she never hurt anyone again. At the exact same time, his soul or his conscience or _whatever_ wanted to stay as far away from crossing that line as possible.

Moving quickly, not daring to risk losing his momentum, he grabbed his shoes, cane, glasses, and wallet and escaped out of his apartment.

Father Lantom’s quiet voice echoed in his head. _There’s a wide gulf between inaction and murder, Matthew._

Well, it felt like the width of the gulf was just a mirage.

~

Matt realized as he approached the church that he probably should’ve used some of that momentum to change into something slightly more formal than the sweatpants and t-shirt he’d fallen asleep in. His feet stopped as he was hit with a wave of preemptive embarrassment.

Then again, his style of dress should really be the least of God’s concerns right now. Setting his shoulders back, Matt walked into Clinton Church.

He heard Maggie moving down below, and for a moment, longed to join her in whatever project she was working on in the basement. After all, he’d asked before if she’d be willing to step into Father Lantom’s place. Help Matt see the error of his ways.

But that wasn’t what he needed right now. He _knew_ the error of his ways (at least, mostly). What he needn’t wasn’t yet another discussion on the merits and dangers of taking a life; what he needed was absolution. And strength to not take a single step closer to the line than he’d already gone.

So Matt hovered awkwardly in the foyer of the church, trying not to eavesdrop on the sacred conversations going on around him. It was impossible to ignore the general sentiments, though. People had come here seeking forgiveness, comfort, encouragement, and solidarity. It sounded like most of them were finding what they needed. Matt could only hope he’d be able to say the same.

Eventually, he heard the doors to the confessional open. A young man around Matt’s age emerged from one side; the new priest—Father Lantom’s _actual_ replacement—from the other. The two parted ways, with the parishioner heading towards the exit of the church, taking him on a path past Matt. The priest must be watching, because Matt heard his quiet intake of breath that meant he’d recognized Matt.

It was, admittedly, difficult not to, what with the glasses and the cane. If the priest was thrown by Matt’s wardrobe, he didn’t show it.

Instead, he approached. “It’s good to see you here, Matthew.”

The greeting was unassuming and though Matt waited for the usual awkwardness that came when people who didn’t know him accidentally used visual language, it didn’t come.

Matt inclined his head. “Father. I, um…” He hesitated, not sure how to get at what he needed without sounding desperate.

“Come to see Sister Maggie?” the priest asked. (As far as Matt knew, the priest didn’t know the truth of their relationship, but Matt certainly visited her more than anyone else at the church.)

“No, actually, I…I was hoping I could take confession.”

“Oh, of course.” The priest sounded a bit surprised (which Matt figured was probably a sign that Matt was a terrible Catholic), but turned around and led the way back towards the confessional. “On your left,” he added softly as they approached, and Matt made less of a show than he normally would’ve over running his hand along the door to find the handle.

Once inside, Matt settled into the closeted space. He’d hated it as a kid; an enclosed box seemed like the worst place to force people to confess. He still didn’t appreciate being closed in, but he could admit that there was something to be said for how effectively the room made him feel like…like the rest of the world had gone on pause, like he’d stepped briefly into a side room to address the most important things while the noisy distractions of the world were temporarily muted.

He crossed himself. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been…two weeks since my last confession.” He paused. “I think.” He paused again. “Maybe longer.”

“It’s been longer,” the priest informed him from the other side of the lattice, voice slightly amused.

Chagrinned, Matt ducked his head. “I’m sorry, Father.” And he lapsed into uncomfortable silence.

After a moment, the priest prompted gently, “What do you need to confess?”

Matt cleared his throat. “There’s, uh…there’s a lot, honestly. But I’m most worried about…something recent.” He closed his mouth, unsure how to go on. This would be so much easier with Father Lantom. “I’m struggling with…temptation. I think.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”

“What are you tempted to do?”

Yeah, no. Matt couldn’t confess that, not unless he wanted to deal with more questions than he was prepared to answer. Not unless he wanted to trust that this priest would be as gracious towards the Devil as Father Lantom had been.

Matt searched for safer words. “There’s this, uh…there’s this man. Evil. He hurt people. Including people I care about. I stopped him, eventually, but…and I stopped him the right way, eventually, but…” He clenched his jaw. “I tried to stop him the wrong way first.”

“The wrong way how?”

Matt closed his eyes. Remembered standing in that warehouse, torn to ribbons by Nobu. Not even the blood he’d lost had been enough to douse his murderous rage. And he remembered Fisk’s penthouse; the feel of Fisk’s head between his hands. How _easy_ it would’ve been to—

Matt opened his eyes. “Just—the wrong way.” He wondered if it was somehow a sin to pray that the priest didn’t insist on details.

It seemed that God heard that unspoken prayer. “But you said you did in fact stop him?” the priest prodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, but, um…” Matt pressed his lips into a thin line. “He has a wife. And she’s…engaging in the same kinds of things. My friends and I, we’ve tried to stop her the right way. But it…it hasn’t worked. It’s _not_ working.”

“And so you think you’re left with only one recourse?”

“No,” Matt said quickly, firmly. No, he didn’t have to kill her. But give her a taste of the Devil? That might be what it was gonna take. “I can stop short of…of crossing that line.”

“Ah.” There was a creaking sound as the priest leaned forward on his own bench. “And yet you’re worried that you’ll cross the line anyway? That’s the temptation you face?”

Matt wet his lips. “Yes. A…a little. Well, it’s…it’s mostly my friends who’re worried I’ll cross the line.” One friend, specifically.

“And you’re not?”

Matt opened his mouth, but couldn’t quite bring himself to agree.

The priest made a humming sound. Not of approval or disapproval; just to show that he was listening.

Matt breathed tensely and tried to move on, reciting: “I am sorry for this sin, and for any that—”

“What is your sin?” the priest interrupted.

Matt blinked. “Sorry?”

“What sin, exactly, are you confessing?”

Matt blinked again. “Temptation.”

There was a hint of a smile in the priest’s voice when he said, softly, “Temptation isn’t sin, my child.”

“It’s…not?”

There was a rustle of movement; the priest shaking his head adamantly, even though Matt couldn’t have seen it even if he weren’t blind. “The book of Hebrews says of Christ: we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet he did not sin. Temptation isn’t sin.”

The correct thing to do at this point would be to nod and say “Yes, Father,” but Matt struggled to believe it. Or accept it. Letting go of guilt felt about as hard as letting go of his secrets or the city’s pain.

Especially since letting go of the guilt didn’t exactly banish the temptation. Maybe the guilt was in fact the only thing keeping the temptation at bay.

While Matt hesitated, the priest spoke again. “You have nothing to confess, Matthew. And all I can do for now is caution you to stay as far from this temptation as possible. Do not give the devil a foothold.”

Well, it was a little late for that. He scooted closer to the priest behind the lattice, lowering his head along with his voice. “Just—Father, what if…what if running from temptation means ignoring the problem? Means letting this woman continue to hurt people?”

“It doesn’t,” the priest said simply. “I don’t know exactly, since you won’t tell me the specifics, but I’m confident there’s a wide array of options available to you that aren’t anything close to the sin you’re trying to avoid.”

Father Lantom would approve. Still.

“There’s not,” Matt said flatly. Karen had tried. Foggy had tried.

The priest took a slow, deep breath. Gathering patience, maybe? “I might be able to help you more if you told me what you’re afraid of doing.”

Matt missed Father Lantom.

“Or, well, I suppose you can keep that between yourself and God.”

Matt clenched his jaw, unable to bite back the words that he knew would give too much away: “But—but what’s the _point_ of…of following the rules, of fighting fair, if _they_ don’t have any limits on what they’re willing to do?”

The priest’s heartrate accelerated, and now it was his turn to lean in towards the lattice between them, voice a bit more urgent, like he could tell Matt was on the edge of doing something terrible. “God does not use the weapons of this world, child.”

“What if _I’m_ the weapon He wants to use?” Matt shot back.

The priest was quiet for a moment. “Maybe you are. But God will never ask you to do something that isn’t part of His will for you, and His will for you will never be for you to do something that will hurt yourself.”

Matt wasn’t concerned about himself.

“That’s what sin is, after all. Sin is anything that hurts you or someone else. The trouble is, we’re not always the best at telling what will hurt us in the long run. Which is why we need His guidance.” The priest’s hand came up, resting on the other side of the lattice. “Trust Him. Flee temptation. And focus on doing what He’s called you to do.”

He didn’t understand. Matt tipped his head back. The confines of the confessional were no longer a source of peace; they were just more restraints. “Yes, Father,” he said, like he was supposed to.

And maybe the priest’s words really were wise. But it didn’t seem to matter when he remembered the terrified beating of Tiara’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, hello, it's time for superhero t h e o l o g y


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the lateness here! I made the mistake of stopping right before a fight scene (never do that unless you're better at maintaining momentum than I am) and had to imagine it in my head like fifty times before my brain would agree to actually write it.

_All day long I have been afflicted,_

_and every morning brings new punishments_

~

Matt

The guilt was worse than usual, gnawing like a worm in his gut all day. As he left the church, he didn’t notice the smell of flowers from the garden. As he walked back to his apartment, he didn’t hear young families laughing in the park. As he let himself into his home through the front door, he didn’t feel any sense of peace.

No surprise, then, that he was kneeling in front of the wooden chest only a few hours later. Talking to the priest was a mistake: he tried to get the new priest’s words out of his head, but they clung like cobwebs no matter what he did. But they didn’t _change_ anything.

The priest could talk about temptation and trust and God’s will all he wanted, but the need was immediate and the truth was simple.

This was what Matt was created to do.

He waited until nightfall. Then he forewent the red suit, opting instead for his old black tactical gear. It wasn’t exactly bulletproof (or knife proof, or even capable of providing protection against blunt force trauma), but it was far stealthier. Besides, the very fact that the black suit was more vulnerable sometimes seemed to sharpen his senses and quicken his mind. Instead of being only a predator, something that could afford to walk unaware through the most dangerous parts of Hell’s Kitchen, into being both predator and prey.

This was Vanessa Fisk. Better to be on guard.

(And maybe a small, deadly voice in the back of his mind was saying he deserved whatever happened to him tonight.)

He took his metal batons, though, rather than the wood ones. Because no matter what Foggy might say, Matt wasn’t stupid.

~

The apartment Vanessa had chosen for herself was nothing like Fisk’s presidential hotel. It was large and no doubt expensive and probably impeccably decorated on the inside, but the exterior seemed like any other apartment. Nothing to suggest that Vanessa Fisk lived here. No signs of her victims, either.

Well, nothing except for the way the entire place buzzed with security—both electrical and human. But Matt assumed none of that was apparent from the outside, either.

He was glad he’d brought Melvin’s clubs. The wiring between them made it easy to scale the building without tripping any alarms. There was no way to shut off the power from outside, though, so Matt needed a diversion before he broke in and alerted everyone to his position.

The windows were reinforced, but not strong enough to withstand one of his clubs. He shattered the window on one side of the building, wincing as a piercing wail rose into the air. Matt couldn’t hear the footsteps of Vanessa’s security converging on the broken window (her security must be top-of-the-line), but he assumed his plan was working. He sprinted across the roof to the opposite side. What was a second broken window amidst all the chaos?

The second window cracked as easily as the first. Matt swung down, boots first, and crashed through into a room. An occupied room. He couldn’t hear any terrified heartbeats over the screaming siren, but the yelped curses were hard to miss. Whoever these people were, they weren’t security, but they also didn’t bear any of the signs of being Vanessa’s victims. Matt took them out quickly, leaving them unconscious but otherwise uninjured.

They deserved jail for aiding and abetting Vanessa. But they weren’t his priority right now. He could come back for them later.

He was already stepping into the hallway as the last unconscious body hit the floor behind him. Rounding a sharp corner, he stayed close to the wall, skimming the back of his right hand against it. With the siren echoing in his ears, he was hoping to catch vibrations along the wall if someone approached.

So far, so good, though. He kept going, breathing through his nose, hunting for any substantial trace of Vanessa’s distinctive scent. Her own, or the scent of her expensive perfumes. The smells lingered everywhere, of course, and that combined with the siren were due to give him a splitting headache in…oh, twenty minutes, probably.

Still concentrating on tracking Vanessa, he rounded a corner. At that exact moment, the siren shut off, leaving a ghost of itself still ringing in his ears. For some reason, the siren going silent raised his hackles. Why would the shut it off if they’d found the broken window, but not the intruder? And yet they couldn’t have found him: he didn’t hear any security reporting his presence on radios, couldn’t even hear any footsteps tracking him, stalking him.

He rounded another corner and instantly flinched back at the sense of air movement swirling in front of him.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, disembodied. Matt tasted something metallic on his tongue and spun backwards, feeling the flat blade of the sword swipe the air in front of him.

Wait, _sword?_

A burst of cold fear flashed through Matt. Swords didn’t belong in Hell’s Kitchen. He absorbed the fear; it would only distract him. Then he flipped forward, arcing high over where he thought his enemy was, and as he landed, he heard a low intake of breath.

Good enough.

Locking onto the sound, Matt let a punch fly and his fist connected with a human face. But the face was covered in…some kind of cloth?

Cloth masks. Swords.

The realization of who—or _what_ —he was dealing with came crashing in on him all at once.

Along with the blade of a sword through his left leg.

It went in high, just above the knee, and pierced straight through to the other side. Maybe he could’ve kept his feet if he’d been expecting it, but there was no warning and he wasn’t ready. He went down hard, gasping as someone jerked the blade in the opposite direction as he collapsed.

His warm blood running down his leg just made the air nipping at both wounds feel that much colder.

His enemy didn’t laugh, mock, didn’t start asking Matt who he thought he was or what he thought he was doing. The only sign that Matt hadn’t been abandoned here on the floor was another slash of the sword, this time cutting across his chest, leaving a searing tear in his flesh behind. He sucked in a breath, trying to curl over the new wound, trying not to flashback to his fight with Nobu.

“Enough,” a voice said, just loud enough that Matt could hear it over his ringing ears.

He gasped, ragged, as Vanessa’s footsteps approached. Compared to his silent enemies, her breathing and her heartbeat were clear and steady, low heels clicking lightly on the floor.

When she was close enough to touch, she knelt down on the floor beside Matt. Reaching out with the gentlest touch, her fingers curled under the edge of his mask, pulling away.

Matt resisted the urge to shut his eyes. Instead, he tried stubbornly to glower in her direction, give her a hint of what was waiting for her when…when he could just get up.

There was a brush of her hair against her shoulder as she tilted her head. “Did you forget the deal you made with my husband?”

“You’re— _ngh_.” He tried to shift more upright, but he’d enlisted his bad leg, and the pain that shot through him stopped him well before a blade flicked down from behind him to settle warningly against his throat. “You’re hurting people.”

“As I told Karen Page, I’m not hurting anyone. I’m giving them opportunities.”

“You…really believe that,” he panted. The thing was, he couldn’t tell for sure; if her heartbeat had changed at all, it was too slight for him to catch with his attention split between listening to her, searching for the slightest movement of the sword, and pushing back his awareness of his wounds.

“Does it matter what I believe?” she wondered. “Aren’t their beliefs the ones that matter? If I’ve given them hope, given them purpose…”

“They’re vulnerable,” Matt spat.

“Aren’t we all?” she mused. “Well, Matthew…” She turned his mask over in his hands. “You’ll be happy to know that I’m not going to kill you. I’m sure your friends would just try to pin it on me. That is, while they’re still credible.” With that, she leaned over him, carefully replacing his mask, molding it to his face like a sculptor with a prized work. Then she stood and ran her hands down the side of her skirt, wiping away nonexistent dust, before withdrawing a phone from her pocket and hitting three buttons.

“ _9-1-1, what is your emergency?_ ” the faint voice on the other end asked.

Vanessa pitched her voice higher, let it shake. “Someone broke into my apartment. I think—I think it was Daredevil? He attacked me. I had a knife, now he’s bleeding! Please help!”

“ _We’re on our way, ma’am. What’s your address?_ ”

Vanessa gave the address, voice still tremulous, even as she took hold of something in her other hand and knelt next to Matt once again. He flinched, but the sword pressed harder against his throat, keeping him still as she dipped the blade of the knife in the blood still welling from the slash across his chest, not caring if the side of the blade nicked the raw edges of his wound.

“Please hurry, I’m really scared,” she whispered into the phone. Once the call disconnected, her voice dropped back to its normal register. “You can leave now, thank you.”

The sword vanished from Matt’s throat, but he didn’t even have time to be thankful before it cut deep into his side. He tried to kick out with his good leg, but his heel caught nothing but empty air. The sword was yanked back out; more hot blood soaked his shirt.

Matt ignored it. He struggled to sit up, but agony blazed through his leg. He managed to prop himself up on his elbow. Just catching his breath for a second. “You really think…I can’t still hurt you?”

“Well, Wilson says you kept going after him when you should’ve been dead,” she remarked, “so, yes, I think you can. But you won’t, will you, Matthew? If you couldn’t let Poindexter hurt me, you won’t hurt me yourself.”

Gritting his teeth, Matt folded his injured leg under himself, pushing himself up until he was half-kneeling, half-crouching. “Then why…do you think I came here?”

“Why did you come to my art gallery?” she countered softly.

She said it like she had some insight into him, into his very soul. She didn’t. What, she thought he was some saint just because he’d protected her from Dex? He’d literally put people into comas, and she was convinced he wasn’t a threat to her?

In that case, the limits of what he was prepared to do to her were no longer just between himself and God. it affected every single person she continued to hurt, secure in her belief that the Devil wouldn’t touch her.

Holding his breath, he suddenly grabbed one of his batons from the holster strapped to his leg. The angle for throwing wasn’t great, but a hit to her head at this range would knock her out.

But she moved almost as fast, so that by the time he’d drawn his weapon, her hand was pressed against the side of his face.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “We don’t need to be enemies.”

Matt opened his mouth to spit out something bitter, but he froze at the sound of tires rolling to a stop outside. Footsteps rushing up the stairs. Two sharp knocks on the front door. One of Vanessa’s staff must have opened the door because Matt heard a man’s voice directing the police upstairs.

Matt shoved Vanessa away, ignoring her startled yelp as he twisted, planting his hands under him with a strangled grunt as more blood flowed. He couldn’t tell if the fuzzy lightheadedness settling in was from panic or blood loss. Didn’t really matter either way.

Footsteps thudded up the stairs, then down the hall.

Matt tried to stand, keeping his weight off his injured leg as well as he could, clamping his hand around the cut to his side. He took one hobbling step and his left foot slipped in his own blood.

He went down again, jamming his left knee hard into the floor, swearing, panicking.

Vanessa laughed softly.

At that second, the incoming footsteps rounded the corner. “NYPD!” a voice barked. “Don’t move! Hands where I can see them!”

Two things registered right away.

First: the officer was Brett Mahoney.

Second: he was aiming a gun at Matt.

Matt froze, heart pounding painfully hard in his chest. He raised his hands above his head.

“You all right, Mrs. Fisk?” Brett asked. Matt didn’t think he was imagining the disdain in Brett’s voice as he addressed her.

“I’m—I’m fine,” Vanessa stammered, voice high and breathless again. “I’m so glad you’re here, I didn’t know what to—”

“You did that?” Brett demanded, stalking closer, gesturing at the hallway. Presumably at all the blood.

Vanesa held out the knife. “I—I didn’t mean to. I feared for my life.”

“Sure you did,” Brett muttered under his breath, so quietly that Matt knew Vanessa couldn’t have heard it. He took the knife from Vanessa, backed a few paces away, and set it on the floor out of reach of both Matt and Vanessa. Then he drew something from his belt, something metallic that clinked ominously.

For the second time in his life, Matt felt the cold weight of handcuffs locking around his wrists. Except that this time, there’d be no escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiiii Brett <3


	9. Chapter 9

_When I tried to understand all this,_

_it troubled me deeply_

~

Matt

An eerie calm descended over him. His life was about to be ruined. Same for Foggy and Karen if they got caught up in this, and Matt had no doubt that Vanessa would personally make sure that happened. But Matt must’ve lost more blood than he’d realized, because the sheer inevitability of the impending disaster was almost…calming?

Psychologically, anyway. He just wished he could get his body on the same page. Instead, his heart was insisting on pounding too fast. Too much of his blood was finding its way outside of Matt’s body instead of actually completing its circuit. He focused on slowing his breathing, listening as Brett grabbed Vanessa’s knife now that Matt had been cuffed, placing it in a plastic baggie.

Vanessa’s heartrate increased ever so slightly. Like she was worried the knife’s blade wouldn’t match Matt’s wounds. Like she was anticipating what would happen if Brett questioned what other weapons she’d used. Or who else might’ve been involved.

Good. If she went down with him, it would be worth it. Maybe.

Evidence secured, Brett returned. “On your feet,” he muttered, setting his hands carefully on the few non-bloodied parts of Matt to lift Matt up—not ungently, but it still made Matt bite his tongue hard enough to bleed. He stumbled, leaning heavily on Brett despite his best efforts, but Brett seemed to have anticipated him. The detective sergeant braced himself, and they both stayed upright.

“Can I do anything to help, sir?” Vanessa inquired, hovering. “I can give a statement…”

“Not right now,” Brett said shortly. “He needs medical attention.”

Aw. Shit.

“But I promise I’ll be back,” Brett added, and maybe Matt was imagining things but he thought he caught a hint of a warning in Brett’s tone.

“Oh, of course,” Vanessa breathed. “Just let me know. I’ll be happy to assist the NYPD however I can.”

“I’m sure you will,” Brett said flatly, apparently much more focused on getting his suspect out of the building. They hobbled together down the hall, and Matt experienced a quiet moment of dread at the thought of the sheer number of flights of stairs waiting for him before Brett nudged him down a different hall to…oh. An elevator.

Relief washed through him, followed immediately by guilt at the thought of what Stick would have to say if he knew Matt didn’t want to go down a couple of steps.

The elevator doors opened, and Brett nudged Matt inside. Matt tried not to lean too heavily against the wall, but as soon as the car started descending, his equilibrium pretty much vanished. He stumbled again and, without his hands free to catch himself, ended up wedged in the corner.

Brett stayed silent, but it was a tense silence. Matt didn’t know what it meant. He was too busy making sure he stayed upright, too busy not thinking about the significance of the heavy wetness of his shirt and pant leg.

He was mostly succeeding when the elevator hit the bottom floor. Expensive as it was, it barely lurched, but Matt was still jarred out of his corner, tilting forward in vague surprise, like he was observing himself from outside his body.

Brett lunged across the small space in a heartbeat so that Matt collided with his shoulder instead of with the floor.

“Whoa,” Brett breathed as the doors slid open. “Keep it together.”

“Always do, Brett,” Matt mumbled. Kind of slurred, really. He was so, so far past caring.

Then he passed out standing up.

~

Brett

Shit—Brett shifted, getting under the masked and bleeding man as the other man suddenly went slack, head lolling on Brett’s shoulder.

The elevator doors started sliding closed again, but no way could they stay here. He needed to get Daredevil as far from Vanessa Fisk as possible, as fast as possible.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, Brett wasn’t unfamiliar with the practice of maneuvering unresponsive bodies. Ignoring the way the masked man’s blood stained his suit, Brett dragged Daredevil out into the foyer.

It was a little creepy how none of the staff looked particularly surprised. Brett was relieved to finally be outside. Double-checking that no one was watching, he hastily uncuffed Daredevil and spread the man out in the backseat of his car before getting in the front and putting a good mile or so between himself and Vanessa Fisk.

Only then did Brett slow to a stop, giving himself a second to really think through this situation he’d found himself in.

When he heard on dispatch that someone was calling about a Daredevil encounter, and that _Daredevil_ had been injured, Brett had listened closely. When he recognized the address as Vanessa Fisk’s, he’d informed all units to stay the hell out of it so he could take care of it. Not that Detective Sergeants usually responded to calls like this one, but at this point all of Hell’s Kitchen knew Brett was best-equipped to deal with Daredevil.

Brett was the only one to know that none of that had anything to do with _Brett_. Daredevil had simply decided, on his own, that Brett was the only member of the NYPD he was willing to work with.

Well, that was starting to make more sense, now. He’d had suspicions for a while, really. Especially after Murdock went missing, then came back from the dead, running around with no concern for his own safety, desperate to take Fisk down. And Foggy, pleading for Brett to _protect Fisk_ if it meant slowing down a “certain someone” to give that “certain someone” time to do the right thing. Yeah, that had been real subtle.

Still, it was just suspicions. Until Daredevil sagged against Brett back in the elevator and said Brett’s _name_ —not “Detective Sergeant,” not “Officer,” not even “Mahoney” but _Brett’s first name_.

That settled it.

Well, Brett had never really been that close to Foggy’s better half, but Murdock must have faith in Foggy’s judgment to have decided that Brett was so trustworthy. And Brett was about to earn that trust.

First things first: he couldn’t let Murdock bleed out in the back of his car. But taking Murdock to a hospital would put him on a trajectory that would end in a jail cell. Daredevil got hurt a lot, though, so he must have some way to get help that didn’t involve hospitals.

Maybe Foggy would know.

Brett used his personal phone, not his department-issued phone, to make the call. Leaving some kind of trail was inevitable, but at least the DA would need a subpoena to access his personal phone records.

“Brett!” Foggy’s voice was confused, but friendly. “Buddy. What’s up?”

Brett considered various ways of trying to get the information he needed, and just decided to be straightforward. “I’ve got Murdock with me,” he began. “He’s—”

“Is he all right?” Foggy demanded. A second later: “Whatever it is, he didn’t do it.”

“…He’s in the mask, Foggy.”

Foggy made a muffled, strangle sound and took a full five seconds of silence to figure out how to respond to that. Then: “…You say _the_ mask, with a definite article, like there’s only one mask and I’m supposed to magically know what mask you’re talking about, but I have no idea. Which, uh…” His voice got about half an octave higher. “Which mask?”

Brett sighed. “I know he’s Daredevil.”

“ _What?_ ” Foggy yelped, putting all the fake surprise he could muster into the one, single syllable. “Okay. Okay. Um. So, here’s the thing. Our young and promising law firm has, um, quite a few enemies, and they’ve, um, been kinda trying to, um…frame us. For stuff. Recently. Like, to discredit us, y’know? So this is just…probably more of that…”

It was a little bit endearing. Hell’s Kitchen had ugly corners, and Brett’s job constantly forced him to confront the ugliest parts, so it was kind of refreshing to hear Foggy try so hard to protect his best friend.

Problem was, Murdock didn’t have time for this. “I found him at Vanessa Fisk’s apartment, slashed to pieces. He’ll probably bleed out in the next two hours, I’d say, unless I can get him help. Now, you wanna tell me what I can do for him besides dropping his ass at a hospital?”

What he heard in response was muted, muffled noises that sounded a lot like Foggy had covered the phone with his mouth to curse Murdock out. After a second of that, his voice returned, now clear. “His place,” he mumbled. “I’ll meet you there.” A pause. Then, in a rush: “But you’d better not arrest him, Brett, because _I_ will defend him and he’ll get off right away but his identity’ll be exposed so you’ll have ruined his life for _nothing_ and I know you’re a good person who won’t be able to live with that.”

Brett almost laughed. Compared to the usual threats he got at work, a threat to his conscience was really the least of his concerns. Foggy had nothing to worry about, though. “I’m not arresting anyone tonight, Foggy. I’ll see you in five minutes.”

~

Pulling up outside Murdock’s apartment, Brett debated the best approach for a second before making up his mind and pulling Murdock’s mask off, stuffing it in his pocket. Even though he _knew_ it was Murdock under that mask, it was still a bit of a shock to see his face underneath. Unnerving, too. Brett knew Murdock wasn’t dead, but he was so pale he kind of looked like it.

Anyway, once the mask was off, Brett figured anyone who saw them wouldn’t immediately recognize Murdock as Daredevil. Especially when Brett scared them off with his badge.

Brett didn’t think the elevator looked particularly trustworthy, but he was _not_ about to lug Murdock’s heavy body (still sluggishly bleeding) up six flights.

On the sixth floor, Brett shuffled Murdock over to 6A and awkwardly tried to keep him upright until Foggy came huffing and puffing up the stairs, still in his pajamas assuming that he slept in sweatpants and wrinkled Captain America t-shirt, followed by Karen Page, who was very much _not_ in pajamas. Dressed in black jeans, a black turtleneck, and black boots, she actually looked eerily similar to Murdock, and Brett immediately resolved not to ask her any questions about what she’d been up to tonight.

Both their eyes flew wide when they saw their friend, but they didn’t pass out or throw up. Foggy’s look of surprise didn’t even last more than a second or two before he was grimly digging a key out of his pocket to unlock Murdock’s door.

Apparently this wasn’t the first time they’d seen Murdock like this. Which was…well. It was really solidifying the fact that Foggy’s blind, moral compass of a best friend was in fact a vigilante.

“Get him on the couch, if you can,” Karen instructed, leading the way into the apartment and disappearing into the bathroom while Foggy helped Brett get Murdock inside. Karen reentered the main room a second later with an armful of towels and a bulked-up first aid kit. Looked like most of its contents had been bought online.

“Hey, Brett?” Foggy said, panting a little as he and Brett laid Murdock out on the couch. “You happen to know how to put in stitches?”

Brett stared at him, starting to feel, maybe belatedly, like this whole thing was actually a giant prank. “I’m not a doctor.”

Foggy made a face. “Fine, I’ll do it. I’m just not as good as Claire.”

“Who’s Claire?”

“The only actual superhero in my life. She’s on her way, but we gotta get started.” He and Karen started digging supplies out of the first aid kit.

Brett blinked. “You know how to put in stitches?”

Foggy shrugged. “Learned after he came back from the dead. I figured, if he wasn’t gonna stop, I should at least try to help keep him alive. Help me get his clothes off?”

Huh. Brett did as instructed, and the three of them were able to strip Murdock down to just his boxers. And Brett wasn’t unaccustomed to seeing injuries, but this was gruesome. A red grand canyon across his chest, a deep slit in his side, and a hole straight through his leg.

One thing was for sure: Vanessa’s tiny little knife was _not_ responsible for this.

Karen swore quietly and pressed a towel to the puncture wound on Murdock’s leg. Foggy squeezed his eyes shut for a second, took two deep breaths, and started stitching the slash wound. Unsure what else to do, Brett grabbed another towel and held it to Murdock’s side in an attempt to stop the third source of blood. He wanted to be helpful, but this was… _so_ far beyond his training.

In fact, the longer he looked, the more in-over-his-head he felt. Because the current wounds were bad enough. But Murdock’s body was _littered_ in older scars. Which made sense, logically; Daredevil had been active for years now.

But seeing it in Foggy’s blind best friend was…Brett cleared his throat. “So…how long have you guys known he’s Daredevil?”

Foggy and Karen exchanged a glance. “Not long,” Foggy said. “Just since Fisk was put away the first time. Um, Karen’s known for less.”

Huh. “You guys were friends before then,” Brett said carefully.

Foggy kept his eyes on his stitches. “Yep.”

“How’d he tell you?”

“He didn’t,” Foggy said darkly.

Something in his tone and Karen’s stiff posture warned Brett not to ask any more questions about that. Not right now, anyway. “How’s he do it?” he asked instead.

“Heightened senses,” Karen explained.

That sounded crazy, except for the fact that it actually made a weird amount of sense. Murdock was definitely blind, which meant he had to compensate for lack of eyesight _somehow_. And…Brett had seen Daredevil in action enough times, both in footage and in real life, to see how the vigilante seemed to have constant three-sixty awareness. You couldn’t sneak up on the guy. Brett knew; he’d tried.

Stitching up just the slash wound across Murdock’s chest took a good forty-five minutes. The mysterious Claire arrived just as Foggy moved to the wound on Murdock’s side. She burst into the apartment in scrubs, bearing a giant medical bag that thumped against her thigh, and barely gave Brett a nod before moving his hands and the towel out of the way so she could look at the puncture wound on Murdock’s leg. Hissing through her teeth at the sight, she didn’t even bother with needles, grabbing a (Brett felt sightly dizzy) _stapler_ from her bag and getting to work closing the holes.

Brett was not used to feeling so useless in a crisis and Murdock—Matt; Brett figured he could call him Matt now that he’d seen the man in his boxers—was showing no signs of waking up. “Uh,” he began, “is there a point where we start considering an ambulance after all? He’s not wearing the mask anymore, no one has to know he’s—”

Karen gestured harshly at Matt’s torso. “Like this won’t raise questions.”

“I could make something up,” Brett said, unable to quite believe the words coming out of his mouth.

Foggy looked just as shocked. Touched, but shocked. “You’d lie for him?”

Brett huffed irritably. “I’m already gonna have to. Gonna have to make up some shit story about a guy in handcuffs cut to shreds breaking out of my custody, unless I want Vanessa Fisk asking why I didn’t charge the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“That’s different,” Foggy argued. “That lie actually makes sense.”

“Hey,” Brett said, irritated. “I don’t make a habit of letting criminals escape.” (He did not mention letting the Devil go free in a graveyard. After all, he’d arrested Frank Castle that night.)

“But _he_ makes a habit of being a criminal who escapes,” Karen pointed out.

Which…yeah. “All right,” Brett sighed.

But Foggy wasn’t done. In fact, he was talking faster and speaking louder now. “And what lie are you gonna come up with that explains not only all this blood and half-done stitches, but _also_ explains all his old scars?”

“I get it, Foggy, it was just a—”

“Because it’ll have to be a _damn good lie_ because otherwise Vanessa will just use his medical record to expose him as Daredevil!”

“It’d be under Murdock’s name,” Brett reminded him, a bit bewildered by Foggy’s sudden vehemence.

“Yeah,” Foggy said shortly. “She knows.”

Oh.

Oh, shit. Brett stared down at the unconscious man. “Then why hasn’t she—”

“Not enough evidence, which is what she’ll have as soon as we take him to a hospital.” Foggy finally, _finally_ placed the last stitch in the stab wound. He smoothed a bandage over it, covering the ugly line of little black knots in Matt’s skin.

“Oh.” The magnitude of the chess game that had apparently been playing out under his nose between two of the most dangerous criminals of Hell’s Kitchen—Daredevil and Vanessa Fisk—hit Brett like an elbow straight to the ribs. He rubbed at the skin between his eyebrows. “Wait, but, so…what was he doing at her place? He let me _arrest_ him. If I hadn’t been, well, _me_ , the whole city would know who he is now.”

Foggy looked suddenly…uncomfortable. And the fact that _this_ was the part making him uncomfortable made Brett instantly suspicious. “She must’ve…lured him there?”

Karen scoffed.

Foggy shot her a warning look.

Karen rolled her eyes, but didn’t say whatever she apparently wanted to say.

Claire kept her attention on Matt.

Brett squinted at all of them. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Before any of them could answer (not that Brett really thought they would), Matt let out a low groan and his sightless eyes opened.


	10. Chapter 10

_Until I entered the sanctuary of God;_

_then I understood their final destiny._

~

Matt

Sometimes waking up from unconsciousness was terrible. Adrenaline flooded his system before he was even fully awake, and terror and confusion wove together leaving him caught between fight and flight.

But sometimes it was almost kind of nice. He might spend the first minute or two trapped in a warm, sleepy haze. No urgency, no matter how dangerous his last moments of consciousness had been.

This time was like that. He vaguely heard voices, as if from underwater, and they sounded nice. Familiar. His body hurt, but what else was new? He was thirsty. He was lying on something soft. Nothing seemed like a threat. Then he remembered.

Vanessa.

Swords.

 _Brett_.

Matt’s eyes snapped open. There was Brett, Brett was right there, but the place didn’t smell like the precinct or the hospital. It smelled like… _home_ , but that didn’t make sense. And Foggy and Karen were there. What, had they been dragged in for questioning already? But Claire was there too. Why was Claire there? What could they possibly have on her?

Adrenaline surged through him. He started struggling to sit up, heart racing.

“Whoa, whoa!” Foggy’s large hands stopped him, pressing gingerly on Matt’s shoulders. “Stay down, buddy. You’re okay. _We’re_ okay,” he added, apparently resigned at this point to Matt caring more about his friends’ wellbeing than his own.

Physically, maybe, he was right, since Matt smelled no blood except his own, but legally? “Brett,” he gasped out. “Brett, what’re you—”

“Saving your life,” Brett answered shortly. “Called Foggy and took you here after you passed out on me in an elevator.”

Matt’s heart was still beating too fast. Claire had put something—oh, _staples_ , he _hated_ staples, couldn’t stop being hyper-aware of them—in his leg and she’d done a good job stitching his side, but Foggy wasn’t an expert yet and Matt felt a few trickles of warm blood run down his chest. He tried to calm himself down, straining for a meditative state and getting nowhere close.

“Matt.” That was Karen leaning over him, one hand cupping the side of his face. “Breathe with me.”

Nodding forcefully, he zeroed in on the slow, steady movement of her lungs. “Sorry, s-sorry,” he stammered, sitting up more slowly this time. Leather creaked under his shifting weight.

“The hell happened to you?” Foggy demanded.

“…Ninjas,” Matt said weakly.

“Shit, _again?_ ”

“What,” Brett said blankly. “Did you just say ninjas?”

Matt ignored the question, turning his head towards Brett. “You arrested me.”

“What else was I gonna do?” Brett retorted. “With Vanessa Fisk staring me down.”

“You…” Matt dragged his hand over his maskless face. “How’d you know it was me?”

“I’m a detective,” Brett intoned.

“But…” That didn’t matter. He wet his lips, longing for water.

Brett spoke up again before Matt could figure out what to say. “So what’s Vanessa up to that got the devil after her?”

In a low voice, Foggy explained about the sex trafficking while Matt closed his eyes, resting his cheek on the back of the couch. He was exhausted, yet final vestiges of adrenaline had yet to leave his system. The combination left him feeling like an empty shell sparking with electricity.

It was a relief to feel that same energy sparking in Brett, who stood up and started pacing with sharp, rigid movements. “ _How_ long has she been doing this?”

There was a slight rustling sound as Foggy shrugged in his oversized shirt. “We don’t know. We don’t know exactly how many people she’s hurt, either. We just found out about it because we got…um, a client.”

Karen leaned forward. “You’re saying _no one_ at the NYPD is looking into this?”

Brett didn’t even try to give them a line about police business and how he couldn’t talk to them about it. He just shook his head. “She’s completely under our radar.”

Matt swore under his breath. Grimacing, he shifted his legs over the edge of the couch, trying to stand up, and doubled over himself for his efforts.

“Whoa, whoa.” Claire’s hands stopped him from pitching off the couch onto the floor. “You need to stay still.”

“We _need_ to fix this,” he said through gritted teeth.

“ _You_ need—” Claire started to say.

But Foggy spoke over her. “Can we all just calm down for a second?”

It worked surprisingly well. At least, it got everyone to stop talking. No one in the room was exactly calm, though, judging by their racing heartbeats.

“Look,” Claire said. “I don’t know everything that’s going on here, and frankly, I don’t want to know. _You_ —” She pointed at Matt. “Stay off your leg. _Do not_ bust your stitches open. _You_ —” She pointed at Karen. “Don’t encourage him. _You_ —” She pointed at Foggy. “You need to practice your stitching unless you want him to end up with worse scars. And _you_ —” She finally turned to Brett. “I don’t know who you are, actually.”

Brett stopped pacing. “Detective Sergeant Brett Mahoney,” he answered. “NYPD.”

“Oh. A cop.” Claire’s tone turned skeptical. “Well, just…don’t make things worse. All right?” She grabbed her bag. “Now, I have a shift starting in an hour, so I’ve gotta go. And I can’t leave in the middle of it, so I’d better not have anyone calling asking me to come put staples back in after _someone_ rips them out.”

“Thank you,” Matt said quietly.

She gave a tiny sigh, a tiny hint of affection in her voice. “I know how much you hate staples, so I _know_ you’re not thanking me for that.”

“For helping me,” he clarified more quietly. 

“Yeah, well…” Leaning down, she kissed his forehead. “You help the city, I help you. That’s our deal. Just… _try_ not to actually martyr yourself, okay?”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he said nothing.

“Anyway.” Claire straightened up, turned her head as if glancing around the room, and let out another little sigh like she was already resigned to disaster coming for the people she was leaving behind. When she left her bag in Foggy’s hands instead of taking it with her, Matt knew he’d read her correctly.

~

Foggy

Claire left, and Foggy couldn’t help thinking she was taking the last bit of sanity in the room with her.

“So,” Brett said, arms folded across his chest, staring down at Matt. “Daredevil.”

“Yep,” Matt grunted, shifting a little closer to the edge of the couch like he was planning on standing up despite Claire’s orders ringing in his ears.

“You…okay.” Brett shifted his hands to his hips. “You do know that’s illegal. Right.”

“Yep.” Matt’s forehead creased as he tentatively put more of his weight on his left leg.

“Matt,” Foggy said warningly.

“You’ve—okay.” Brett started pacing again. “You’ve literally _defended_ some of the people Daredevil delivered to the precinct, but—okay.”

Matt scowled in Brett’s general direction. “If you’re referring to Troy Benson, his confession was coerced. He may have committed armed robbery, but he didn’t _actually_ assault anyone.”

“Guys,” Karen said.

“What about the Thomas case?” Brett demanded.

Matt scoffed. “Unlawful search, Brett, come _on_. Just because he was in custody—”

“Guys!” Karen raised her voice. “Can we focus, please? We need to figure out what to do about Vanessa.”

“Didn’t realize this was a strategy session,” Foggy couldn’t help saying. Although, really, he wasn’t surprised. “Brett, I hope you’re prepared for the staggering amount of dysfunction you’re about to witness.”

Brett’s eyebrows rose. “Noted.”

Foggy took a deep breath and, because it was his duty, proposed: “We need to take her down through the legal system.”

This went over as well as expected.

“How,” Matt said flatly, while Karen just shook her head.

Foggy pretended to still have hope that they would actually be reasonable for once. “Our client. We convince her to flip on Vanessa, then—”

Matt’s lip curled. “Despite the fact that Vanessa has no doubt threatened her life and family if she so much as says Vanessa’s name to _anyone_ , let alone a judge.”

“We’ll figure that out, all right? Then we use her testimony to get a subpoena—”

“You really wanna get into a discovery battle with Vanessa? You think she’ll actually give us _anything_ useful?”

Foggy changed tactics at lightspeed. “We use Tiara’s testimony to get a search warrant—”

“Lawyers don’t get to demand search warrants,” Brett reminded him, a little pointedly. Then he relented. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Even if we try that,” Karen cut in, tapping her fingernails on the arm of the couch, “it’ll take months to build an actual case against Vanessa, and at least a year to get any kind of resolution. D’you know how many people she’ll hurt in the meantime?”

Matt was already nodding. “Exactly.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” Foggy asked, very patiently, knowing they didn’t have an answer. Not a real one, anyway. “Send Matt after her again? Because we tried that, and…” He gestured at Matt’s blood-drained form.

But, oh no, Matt’s eyes were narrowing. “I’ll wear the red suit. It’s more armored.”

“It’s—what— _more_ armored,” Foggy spluttered. “It’s not _bulletproof_. And it can still be cut by _swords_ , probably! And, oh yeah, _you_ are in no condition to fight _anyone_ when you can _barely stand up_.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. He gripped the side of the couch, looking like he was one second away from trying to prove Foggy wrong.

“Whoa, whoa, Murdock,” Brett interjected, moving to block him. “I didn’t drag you all the way here from Vanessa Fisk’s apartment just for you to knock yourself out trying to stand up.”

Matt glared at the general universe. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Foggy, Brett, and Karen all chorused in unison.

“Okay,” Karen said, drawing a tiny notebook and a pen from a back pocket or something. “So, trying to take Vanessa out through a legal case is out. Sending Matt back in to beat her up is out. We have Brett, though. We could place a call to the NYPD, tell them suspicious activity is going on, get Brett to lead a team—”

But Brett was shaking his head. “She’s smart enough not to leave anything incriminating in plain view. Well, except for him.” He jerked his thumb at Matt. “I got the knife she claims she used—”

“It was a sword,” Matt said petulantly.

Brett ignored him. “—but that doesn’t do us any good unless we let forensics try to match the knife to his wounds.”

“Is there a way to do that while he keeps his mask?” Foggy asked hopefully.

Brett rolled his eyes. “What do you think?”

“You know,” Karen said thoughtfully, “we haven’t tried going to the news—”

“You don’t want her going after Ellison,” Matt told her.

“Well, we’re running out of options!” she shot back.

Foggy’s mind raced. Surely there was some idea they were missing, some resource available to them that they weren’t thinking of. But no—they’d covered the law, Daredevil, the NYPD, and the _Bulletin_. What was left? Sending Marci in? Like, Marci could probably intimidate Vanessa, actually, but then she’d just get her throat slit by sword-bearing ninjas, so…no. Absolutely not.

“Maybe…” Foggy began hesitantly. “Maybe this isn’t a problem we _can_ fix. At least, not right away.”

He instantly regretted the words. Matt looked horrified. Karen looked disgusted. Brett just shrugged, but his expression was grim with disagreement.

“I mean,” Foggy tried again, although he wasn’t exactly sure how he planned on clarifying.

Matt didn’t even pretend to be interested in what Foggy had to say. “I have to fix this.”

“We,” Karen corrected.

But Matt narrowed his eyes. “I can’t speak for what any of you have to do. But I—I can’t stop trying until I fix this.”

“No one said _stop trying_ ,” Foggy protested, thinking he really shouldn’t have to explain the difference between _stopping_ and _waiting_ to a _lawyer_.

It didn’t matter; no one was listening to him anyway. In fact, Brett seemed to be watching Matt carefully. “What does fixing it look like, to you?”

Matt stiffened under the scrutiny. “I need to stop her.”

Brett’s head tilted to the side. “And that’s what you were trying to do in her apartment?”

Matt’s eyes almost met Brett’s as something wordless passed between them. “That wasn’t the goal.”

“But if that’s what it takes…”

Matt’s eyes darkened. “Maybe.”

Foggy glanced back and forth between the two of them, then looked across at Karen. Was he crazy, or were Matt and Brett sharing in some secret layer of the conversation? “…Guys?” he said nervously.

“Is this…” Karen gestured between them. “Helpful?”

Brett didn’t answer her directly. “You said she’s running a sex trafficking ring?”

Matt nodded once.

“You said some of her victims are _children?_ ”

Another nod.

Brett pursed his lips. “As an officer of the law, I can’t ignore her rights.”

Foggy instantly felt relieved.

But he’d relaxed too soon. Brett was still looking at Matt. “But you can.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Until Karen clapped her hands together, so suddenly Foggy jumped in alarm. “All right, let’s go.”

Brett and Foggy looked up; Matt cocked his head. “What?”

“Let’s go, guys, c’mon. Get up.” She was already marching towards the front door, ponytail swishing behind her.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Foggy called after her.

She stopped to look over her shoulder, blue eyes flashing. “We’re going to church.”

Matt flinched like a kid told he had to go to the dentist. His mouth moved silently for a second before he came up with: “Why?”

“Because I know you, and I know you’re not gonna be satisfied without taking this into our own hands. Especially not with Brett over there encouraging you,” she added with a scathing look at Brett, who had the decency to drop his gaze. “But,” she went on, softening her voice a little, “maybe there’s a middle ground here. Where Daredevil can still help.”

“Daredevil can barely walk,” Foggy couldn’t help but remind everyone.

Karen ignored him entirely, which was…fair, because Matt would definitely be ignoring that point too, and she knew him well enough to know that. “But whatever that middle ground is, it’s probably buried in a bunch of special Catholic rules, and none of the rest of us know enough about that to help you figure it out. So.” She set her shoulders back. “We’re going to church.”

Matt plucked moodily at the fabric of his pants. “He doesn’t know I’m Daredevil.”

“Your _priest_ doesn’t know you’re Daredevil?” Brett echoed dubiously. “Huh. I think if anyone should know you’re Daredevil, it’d be your priest.”

“Yes, I’m a terrible Catholic,” Matt snapped. “What else is new.”

“Not the point,” Karen interrupted loudly. “C’mon, Matt, let’s go. We need help finding a solution, and you need to tell your priest that you dress up like the devil every night to beat people up. Win-win.”

“I hate my life,” Matt grumbled under his breath. But Foggy didn’t see him actually arguing with Karen. Maybe because he knew he’d lose?

Or maybe because he knew she was right.

~

Matt

Matt was about ninety-nine percent sure that he would never have agreed to this had he not lost so much blood. But somehow here he was, bundled up in sweatpants and a hoodie that he’d managed not to bleed through yet, wearing his sunglasses and leaning more on his cane than he should, limping as he led the way into Clinton Church late at night because he happened to know that this new priest slept about as little as he did. For the same reason, too, presumably: hearing people’s suffering was a heavy thing.

But it was a blessing on a night like tonight, when the priest came out to meet them in the foyer, wrapped in a thick dressing gown over flannel pajamas, smelling of toothpaste. “Matthew?” he guessed, like it was hard to see in the dark.

Matt inclined his head. “Hello, Father. We’re sorry to bother you so late, but…”

“I wasn’t asleep. Who are these you’ve brought with you?”

Last chance to try to back out of this. Not that he thought Karen would let him. “My friends. Foggy and Karen.”

The priest extended his hand. “How nice to meet you both.” He craned his neck a little. “And who’s this?”

“Brett Mahoney,” Brett answered. “And I like to think I’m a friend, too.”

Matt shuffled his feet. “Sorry. Yes. You are.” He just…wasn’t used to Brett being _Matt’s_ friend.

“And what can I do to help all of you?” the priest inquired.

Matt gripped his cane. “Well, uh…we’re actually here about the same problem I spoke to you about last time.”

“Oh. Well, you won’t all fit in the confessional…”

Matt half-smiled. “Does the kitchen still have the latte machine?”

And so, ten minutes later, they were all seated at one of the long tables in the kitchen, waiting for their lattes to cool.

“Maybe you can tell me a little more about what’s going on?” the priest asked hopefully.

Under the cover of the table, Matt tapped an uneasy rhythm on his thigh. “The, uh…the person I was talking about. Is Vanessa Fisk.”

The priest cocked his head. “Wilson Fisk’s wife? Is she…dangerous, then?”

“Very.”

The priest nodded slowly. “Can you tell me what it is she’s doing?”

Matt clenched his jaw. “Sex trafficking. Some of the victims caught in her web are minors.”

The priest’s heartrate sped up. “I see.”

“And we’ve tried going after her through the law, but it’ll take too long, and…” Matt hesitated. “And she’s already tried to threaten Foggy’s brother.”

Foggy lowered his head a little. Matt couldn’t tell if he felt guilty for dragging his brother into this, or guilty for being the only person at Nelson, Murdock, and Page who actually had family for Vanessa to use as leverage.

“We’re trying to think of a way to stop her that won’t drag more people into her crosshairs, but…”

“Can’t the police help?” the priest asked.

“Not enough evidence,” Brett said. “Not yet.”

The priest held his mug tighter. “I see the difficulty, then.” He paused. “Matthew, when you came to me before…” He trailed off.

Matt pressed his lips together. “It’s all right. You can talk about it in front of them.”

“Right. Thank you.” The priest shifted his weight, making his cheap chair creak underneath him. “You were talking about…crossing a line.”

Foggy didn’t react with surprise. That was the worst part.

“Can you tell me more about what you were…so afraid of doing?”

Matt wasn’t sure _afraid_ was the right word, but he wasn’t going to argue about it. He adjusted his glasses, reminding himself of their comforting weight on the bridge of his nose. “There are, uh…some people, I think, who are…so evil that…” He stopped, the words stuck in his throat. But no one jumped in to fill the gap, say what he didn’t want to have to say out loud. He swallowed. “Taking their life is no injustice.”

There. The priest’s heartrate sped up. Father Lantom’s didn’t use to do that, like Matt genuinely could not shock him. Worry him, yes. Disappoint him, absolutely. But shock? No.

Still. Wishing for Father Lantom wouldn’t bring him back.

“How, um…” The priest lifted the mug like he needed something to do with his hands. “If I may ask, how were you…going to do that?”

“Father?” Matt took a deep breath. “I’m Daredevil.”

The priest spilled his latte all over the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was *so close* to hitting the target of 11 chapters, but...


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've caught me. The entire plot is a convoluted excuse for this.

_Truly You set them in slippery places;_

_You make them fall to ruin._

~

Matt

There were, really, many positive things about the situation. For one, the priest’s reaction meant that he hadn’t somehow figured it out on his own as Father Lantom had. For another, the priest wasn’t immediately calling the police. Nor was he flicking holy water at Matt. So, really, there was a lot to be thankful for here.

Matt briefly described his senses (trying not to notice Brett’s obvious interest, reminding himself that Brett wouldn’t use this knowledge against him), but he mostly skipped over Stick and tried to keep the conversation on the present instead of the past. The priest seemed to recognize this. He at least pretended to accept Matt’s sparse explanation at face value.

“And so that explains why you’re…?” He gestured at Matt’s general body. “I didn’t want to ask in front of your friends in case it was…but now I imagine it isn’t so uncommon?”

“If only,” Foggy bemoaned.

Matt subtly sniffed the air. He was still mostly sure that he hadn’t bled through anything, but sometimes that was hard to tell. Besides, he’d definitely been limping enough to make it clear he was injured. He shifted in his seat. “Vanessa has, uh…good protection.”

The priest also shifted, mirroring him. “So you went to see her? As Daredevil?”

Matt just nodded.

“And how did that go?”

“Not well,” he said shortly.

“Were her victims in her apartment?”

“No. I don’t think they really get the _privilege_ of staying there.”

“So you were there to see her, then?”

Matt felt a little like he was under a cross-examination. He wished Foggy weren’t listening. Reaching up, he adjusted his glasses. “To convince her to let them go. But I didn’t get close.”

The priest tilted his head. “And…do you think that is, ultimately, a good thing?”

No. Not for her victims. They shouldn’t have to suffer just because Matt wasn’t sure he could control the devil. But obviously the priest wanted to hear Matt say yes. Matt took the coward’s way out and didn’t say anything.

Karen cleared her throat. “Um…Father?”

Matt wondered if she was intentionally sparing him the scrutiny.

“We really came here hoping for advice. Direction. We can’t afford to wait on this. Especially, um, since she knows Matt is Daredevil.”

“Oh,” the priest said faintly.

“So, obviously, the fastest way to solve the problem would be…well, would be for Matt to take her out.”

The priest tensed. “There has to be a way to stop her without asking Matthew to commit murder.”

No one was asking, but all right.

“I know,” Karen said, leaning forward over the table. “But what _can_ he do without, you know, um…sinning?”

“Are you asking me to tell you if paralyzing her is okay?” the priest asked in disbelief.

“Let the record reflect,” Foggy cut in loudly, “that Matt can barely even _walk_ right now. In case anyone’s forgotten that little fact.”

Matt glared in his direction and started to stand up, but his right leg buckled the instant he put weight on it. Everyone lurched towards him, so he thrust out a hand to stop them as he caught himself on the table.

“I’m fine,” he hissed through his teeth. He really was. It was more shock than pain, really. The staples didn’t actually hurt that much worse than stitches, but they were so… _unyielding_. He could feel each distinct little shard of stainless steel biting into his ripped flesh every time his muscles moved.

Karen’s hand rested on his arm. “Maybe let’s not try to prove him wrong right now.”

Matt’s ears burned, but he lowered himself back down into his seat. The devil in his chest growled in frustration at being so helpless.

Suddenly, Brett’s breathing hitched. “Maybe Matt doesn’t have to go on the offense.”

Everyone turned to him in confusion.

Brett was nodding subtly, as if to himself. “Whatever we do, it has to be fast. But that doesn’t mean we can’t use the justice system.”

“What part of the justice system is fast,” Karen muttered. Hence why accusing her of Fisk’s crimes wouldn’t be good enough, fast enough.

“The arresting part,” Brett shot back.

“Brett,” Foggy said, very patiently, “I thought we covered the fact that we don’t have enough evidence on her.”

“Not yet,” Brett said. “And not for human trafficking. But for, say, assault…”

Oh. _Oh_. Matt raised his eyebrows. “You were just a little late with that last time.”

“But what if I weren’t this time?”

“ _This_ time?” Foggy spluttered, heartrate going crazy.

“You could be going back to her place to get a statement,” Matt suggested. “In time to witness everything.”

“Define _everything_ ,” Foggy demanded.

Foggy wasn’t gonna like this. Still, Matt gestured to himself. “Someone else helped her last time, but we can still frame her for whatever they do to me.”

Throwing his hands in the air, Foggy stood up and started pacing. “I can’t even. I can in no way possibly even.”

“New York has the castle doctrine,” Karen pointed out. “She’s allowed to defend herself if her place is being burglarized. Especially by Daredevil, since he’s not exactly…nonthreatening.”

“Does it have to be Daredevil?” the priest asked.

Matt stiffened. “Father, I can take a hit. I’m not asking anyone else to go in there and let Vanessa—”

“I mean, can’t you go as yourself?”

That took everyone aback. Even Foggy stopped pacing.

“If—and I’m not saying I think the overall plan is a good idea, but—if the plan is to entice her to use force, and if she knows you’re Daredevil, can’t you go as yourself? That would make it harder for her to argue that you’re breaking in, yes? And, well…”

And any claim of self-defense against a blind man wouldn’t look great. He was just too polite to say it.

There was a frown in Karen’s voice. “He wouldn’t be able to fight back. If Vanessa got hurt, it might give her enough evidence to go public with Matt’s identity.”

“Yes,” the priest said more quietly, turning directly to Matt. “And I, for one, will feel a lot better about your soul if you had more…external…reasons to not start down the path of using force against her.”

Matt lowered his head and, once again, said nothing.

“Okay,” Foggy burst out, “but are _any_ of us concerned that she might _actually kill him?_ ”

“She knows we’d come after her,” Karen reminded him.

“And I’ll be backing him up,” Brett added.

Matt was a little…well, a little unsure how to respond to having this much support. The priest wanted to protect Matt’s soul, and Karen and Brett were determined to protect everything else. He only wished Foggy had more faith in him.

“Besides,” Karen said, folding her arms across her chest. “Do you have a better idea?”

“I _will_ , if you give me a day or two to _think_.”

“I’m not waiting that long,” Matt said flatly. “The people she’s hurting have waited long enough.”

~

It was a weird feeling, changing into one of his work suits (his least expensive one), knowing that he wasn’t going to the office or court but was instead going out to purposefully get ripped to shreds. And not fight back. It was strange to find that his anticipation was entirely in the prospect of Brett locking cuffs around Vanessa’s wrists, and not at all in the satisfaction of taking her down himself.

The devil inside wasn’t entirely happy with this plan. The devil wanted a piece of Vanessa. But Matt was disconcerted to realize that maybe he and the devil weren’t as intertwined as he’d always thought.

Karen knocked on the door. “You ready?”

“Almost.” He finished the last button of his dress shirt. “You can come in.”

Opening the door, she moved gracefully inside right as he picked up his tie, wincing. She hurried closer. “Can I help?”

“Oh, uh…”

She was already picking it up, the smooth fabric slipping between her fingers. “Here,” she said quietly, sliding the tie around his neck.

He swallowed, trying to hold perfectly still for her.

“You know,” she murmured, fingers taking their time as she worked, “Foggy’s not upset at you.”

“He’s upset about all of this.”

“Because he’s worried about you.”

“Because he still thinks I’ll wake up one day and turn into Frank Castle.”

For once, she kept her thoughts about Frank Castle to herself. “He was really scared, Matt. After we lost Ray? And you, um…you went after Fisk. I was with him when you left. He was really scared.”

Matt felt cold. “I wasn’t gonna hurt him.”

“What? Matt, that’s not—” She stopped. “That’s not what I’m saying at _all_. I’m saying he was scared for _you_. Because he thought, once you crossed that line…you’d never come back. Not really.”

Matt should probably feel grateful, but he didn’t. He just felt suffocated. “I’m not going to cross that line.” He gestured annoyedly at the suit. “That’s the point of all this, according to my priest.”

“I know,” she said calmly, finishing the knot of his tie. “All I’m saying is, maybe it feels more natural for you to let your priest worry about what’ll happen to you if you kill Vanessa, but it probably feels completely natural to Foggy to worry about that, too.”

“I don’t want him to worry.”

“That’s not really something you can control,” she said gently. She smoothed his tie down over his chest. “Give it time. And…” She stepped back, apparently regarding him. “Try not to die. That’ll help.”

“Brett will have my back,” he reminded her.

She lowered her voice. “You said there were ninjas. Is it…is it the Hand?”

He picked at a stray thread on the edge of his sleeve. “I don’t know. Possibly. They normally have a broader goal, but…I don’t know what Vanessa’s promised them. Control of the whole city, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Or maybe they’re just run-of-the-mill ninjas?” she asked hopefully.

He smiled tiredly. “They can mask their heartbeats.”

“What?”

“It’s a Hand thing. So they must at minimum have been trained by the Hand.”

Karen’s own heart betrayed her fear, but her voice was even. “They’re not afraid to kill. I know we have Brett helping, but he’s not faster than a sword. Promise me, if you think it’ll come down to it…”

“I won’t let them kill me.”

“See, I think you even mean that. But if you even wait too long to fight back—”

“Karen.” He reached out, found her hand. Squeezed it once. “I can take care of myself.”

Her answering laugh was small, chagrinned. “I know. Believe me, I know. But I guess Foggy doesn’t have a monopoly on worrying, huh? I guess that’s just what happens when you love someone.”

Matt blinked. He’d never, ever thought to make a connection between love and worry. Love and pain, sure. But worry?

“Anyway.” She cleared her throat like she thought she’d said too much. “Go have fun. Just—but—Matt—”

He lifted his chin in acknowledgement.

“Please,” she whispered, “be careful.”

~

Riding in Brett’s police car to Vanessa’s apartment was also weird, since Matt preferred to avoid police cars whenever possible, even when he was in the passenger seat. Matt tried to shut his ears to the sounds of the city, the occasional cry for help. He _was_ helping. And he needed to focus.

Brett spent the whole trip quizzing Matt on the possibility of ninjas. Matt instinctively wanted to downplay it, but Brett was putting his own life on the line to do this, so he ended up giving more detail than he really wanted. Brett’s heartrate increased with each word Matt said. But he just kept driving.

“How you gonna get in?” Brett asked at last, pulling to a stop on the corner behind the grandiose building. (They didn’t know where Vanessa’s cameras might be, and couldn’t afford to let her see Matt and Brett working together.) “It’s probably locked.”

Matt grimaced to himself. Apparently trusting Brett with his life was easier than trusting Brett with his abilities. “I know how to pick locks.”

Brett laughed nervously. “Of course you do.”

Matt opened his door. “She’s on the third floor. I’ll try to keep her there.”

“Okay.” Brett drew his gun (not that it would be much help against Hand-trained ninjas, but Matt thought it best not to point that out). “Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

Giving him a quick nod, Matt slid out of the car. He picked the lock to the front door in under a minute, and stepped into the empty lobby.

Matt headed for the stairwell. The anticipatory adrenaline in his system made him want to take the steps two at a time, but he was forced to hobble his way upwards, his leg already protesting. Matt had an odd moment of wishing he’d taken painkillers for this, but he literally hadn’t thought of it.

It would be fine as long as it didn’t affect his concentration. See, there was one hole in his plan, one no one else seemed to have noticed, and he didn’t yet have a solution. What Matt had neglected to mention to the others was that he was not entirely certain that Vanessa would stoop to using violence against him at all. She’d ordered the hit on Ray Nadeem, yeah, but that was because Ray had been an immediate and active threat.

Matt, showing up at her apartment not as Daredevil but as Matt Murdock? Not so much.

And he didn’t know her, not like he knew Fisk. He didn’t know which buttons to press. Finding someone’s trigger points wasn’t so difficult when you could hear their heartbeat, but reading Vanessa had always been…difficult.

Matt’s labored breaths echoed loudly through the stairwell by the time he reached the third floor. He paused on the landing. Over the sounds of his own breathing, he could hear Vanessa standing halfway down the hall outside, a delicate handgun held loosely in her right hand. She’d seen him on security cameras, no doubt.

“Back again?” she inquired.

He feigned mild confusion. “Again?”

“Why the glasses and cane ensemble?” Her voice was cool, but not as calm as she’d probably like it to be. She was suspicious.

He dipped his head placatingly. “I just want to talk.”

Her laugh was like warning bells. “No, you don’t. You and Wilson, you’re just the same. Emotional. You don’t negotiate; you can’t even stop and see from your enemy’s perspective.”

“Well,” Matt said amicably.

She hummed. “No, I overstated your and Wilson’s similarities.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Significantly.”

“You know how to lie.”

“And he doesn’t?”

“He can’t,” she said simply. “It’s why I trust him.”

Matt’s lip curled. “That’s all it takes to earn your trust? Honesty? Even from a man responsible for the deaths of countless innocents?”

“Is anyone innocent, really?” She took a step closer. “We all have our demons. We’ve all hurt people. We all have our…” Her voice lowered. She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Worst impulses.”

“Mrs. Fisk—”

“Tell me what you came for, Matthew.”

Something about the way she said it, the way her tongue moved around his name, reminded him of Elektra. It made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Still, he held his ground. “I want you to turn yourself in to the NYPD.”

She laughed again. “Of course you do.”

“I want you to tell them everything. Not just what you’re directly responsible for. Tell them all of it. All your connections, all your resources. Everything. So they can dismantle this empire you’re building.”

Her hand was still on his shoulder. “I could give those idiots everything and they wouldn’t even know what to do with it, and you know that as well as I do. So why are you really here?”

He let a hint of the Devil slip into his voice. “To give you a warning.”

“And if I don’t want to listen?”

He shrugged. “Your funeral.”

She sighed. “You’ve got that backwards, I’m afraid.”

He allowed himself a smile, the cocky one that Foggy insisted was annoying. “Oh, really. What are you gonna do to me? Because it’s nothing compared to what I can do to you.”

“I’m not sure what you think you’re capable of.”

“Besides proving your culpability in Fisk’s crimes?”

Her heartrate sped up, just slightly. “Wouldn’t that violate your agreement with my husband?”

Matt smirked. “What agreement?”

Her head tilted. “Daredevil.”

“Who?”

She lowered her voice. “You and Wilson are alike in another way: your devotion to those you love. Play dumb all you like, but I know you won’t put Nelson or Page at risk.”

“What, haven’t I already?” He gestured at his own leg. Karen had assured him his injury wasn’t visible through the suit, but he knew Vanessa couldn’t have forgotten.

She shook her head. “You haven’t gone far enough. You’ve only been testing the boundaries. Accusing me of Wilson’s crimes would mean instant retaliation, and you know it.”

Matt shrugged. “Lot of good that’ll do you in jail.” And with that, he turned, pushing her hand away, and started walking back down the hall.

“Wait!” She caught up to him in two quick steps. “My business can’t possibly mean so much to you—”

He whirled around, real fury rising up to replace his veneer of recklessness. “Your _business?_ Exploiting vulnerable people and calling it a _charity?_ You think I don’t—” He caught his breath, forced his hands to uncurl from their tight fists. “You think I wouldn’t sacrifice _everything_ to stop you—to save them?”

She held completely still. Evaluating him the way she might evaluate a new piece of art.

He gritted his teeth. “Isn’t this just one more thing Fisk and I have in common, _Vanessa?_ ” he spat. “We love this city. When it comes right down to it, you just never know if we’ll choose the city over any one person in it.” He paused, made sure she was listening, made sure she was paying attention. “Even the people we think we love.”

She sucked in a tiny breath, inaudible but for his senses. Enough to tell him she was rethinking her calculus.

Perfect. Now he needed to keep moving, walk away. As long as he stayed, she might still feel like she had some control of the situation. If he appeared to slip out of her grasp….

He turned again.

And she grabbed his arm.

He raised his eyebrows. “Let go of me.”

Her grip tightened. “You’re so arrogant. This lone man who—”

“Thinks he can make a difference?” Matt finished for her. “Yeah. I’ll make a difference for you as easily as I did for Fisk.” Wrenching out of her grasp, he started striding down the hall.

He didn’t know what she did, exactly, to signal her ninjas. He only knew she had when his ears, already straining for any sign of them, caught not the sound of heartbeats or approaching footsteps, but instead the butterfly-light sound of a dagger drawn from its sheathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, Matt fighting people in a normal suit is great and all, but what about Matt getting hacked to pieces while unable to fight back?

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't supposed to be 11* chapters long but what can I say? It was a really cool prompt? I want to do it justice? I have no self-control? Regardless, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> *12**
> 
> **sigh


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